


Blank and True

by charizona



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: (au not crossover so the only characters from dollhouse are whiskey/claire), Dollhouse AU, F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-05
Updated: 2016-08-23
Packaged: 2018-05-05 02:51:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 20
Words: 58,984
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5358242
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/charizona/pseuds/charizona
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After quitting the Intelligence Support Activity, Sameen Shaw needed a change of pace. She accepted an offer in private security, but the Dollhouse wasn't exactly what she had in mind.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. 1

**Author's Note:**

> WOW. Okay, so I worked on this for nano and I'm slowly editing the chapters as I post them (so if anyone wants to beta???). This is probably the longest thing I've written and I'm incredibly proud of it... So love it. Also! You do not need to watch (or have watched) Dollhouse in order to understand this! I tried my absolute best to explain everything, just as it's explained in the actual show. (Although, I would recommend watching Dollhouse just because it's pretty fantastic).

"We take the plunge; under water our limbs  
waver, faintly green, shuddering away  
from the genuine color of skin; can our dreams  
ever blur the intransigent lines which draw  
the shape that shuts us in? absolute fact  
intrudes even when the revolted eye  
is closed; the tub exists behind our back;  
 _its glittering surfaces are blank and true_.

In this particular tub, two knees jut up  
like icebergs, while minute brown hairs rise  
on arms and legs in a fringe of kelp; green soap  
navigates the tidal slosh of seas  
breaking on legendary beaches; in faith  
we shall board our imagined ship and wildly sail  
among sacred islands of the mad till death  
shatters the fabulous stars and makes us real."

Sylvia Plath,  _Tale of a Tub_

 

_______

 

Still as a statue, Shaw sat, glued to the chair in front of her superior, Robert Hersh.

“Are you sure this is what you want?” Hersh’s eyes trailed across her face, reading her expression.

Shaw didn’t show any emotion, putting on her casual, neutral expression. Like always, Shaw was a blank slate. Emotionless. She pressed her lips together, toyed with the idea in her head, and nodded. She crossed her arms and tapped her fingers on her bicep.

Hersh’s sigh filled the room. “You’re a good agent, Shaw. Why are you doing this?”

The room, sparsely furnished, had few books on the shelves; they mostly detailed human and gun anatomy. Shaw had the same books in her own apartment. All agents did. When they lived their lives in transit, they learned to live with few ties.

Shaw had one tie. “Cole is dead,” she said hollowly. The images replayed in her mind. Cole died stepping in front of her, saving her from the inevitable bullet in the back. “I don’t want a new partner. Maybe I’ll come back, but right now, I need some time off.”

Hersh folded his hands together and glanced toward the clock. “I’ll sign the papers for your pension. You deserve it.”

She stood up and reached across the desk. Mentor and mentee shook hands and parted ways.

The Intelligence Support Activity let her slip away without complaint. Shaw attended Cole’s funeral by standing two plots away from the actual procession. Dressed in all black, Shaw mourned for the person closest to what she might consider a friend. Afterward, Shaw hovered near the disturbed dirt.

“You always had my back,” she murmured.

 

.

 

Two weeks later, Shaw stood in the dry heat of Los Angeles, basking in the heat of the sun. New York pulled at her from across the country, but she needed a new start. The anonymity Los Angeles allowed was perfect. Disappearing was second nature to her by now. She’d done it a million times.

She found an apartment that worked. She didn’t need much. The bare loft left little to the imagination: a bed in one corner, a door to the bathroom in the other, and a bar separating the kitchen from the rest. She’d never call it home, but it would do.

After Cole’s funeral, Shaw received a job offer in private security.

The offer had come from over the phone, back when she’d been in New York City. “Hello?” Shaw hadn’t recognized the number.

“Agent Shaw.” The voice had been British and male. Old.

“Who is this?” She had leaned against her counter, glancing toward the window. It was an old habit, and it was dying hard. Her curtains were drawn; no one could see in.

A sigh on the other end had resulted in an increase of static over the line. “My name is John Greer. I’d like to offer you a job.”

She hadn’t asked many questions. The where: Los Angeles. The when: one week. Greer offered a substantial amount of money, and Shaw had assumed when he said “private security” he meant what she saw in movies. Black tie, communication link in one ear, and hands folded neatly in front of them.

What she got was almost like a movie, but a different genre entirely.

The first time Shaw stepped into the Dollhouse, she found the corporation empty. Outside, the sign had read “Rossum Corporation”. Inside, the company was a shell. Shaw had seen it before, buildings used as disguises for something not so legal. There was nothing for her here. She turned and headed back to the front door. 23 Flower Street be damned.

“Agent Shaw.” Her glance met the gaze of a tall, old man. He wore an expensive suit, graying hair, and a face that could’ve been mistaken for a wrinkled shirt.

Shaw had judged John Greer correctly. He looked down on her, smiling more of a smirk. He walked toward her as if he walked on water, as if the world waited patiently to kiss his feet. He had an aura about him, the same aura Shaw had spent most of her life either avoiding or killing.

She didn’t buy it. “Look, I’m not interested.” The shell company, the suspicious phone call; she shouldn’t have come here in the first place.

“You’re already here.” He waved his arms, as if being “here” meant something.

Back in the ISA, Shaw treaded carefully around every obstacle; she never could tell what was a trap and what wasn’t. She approached this situation cautiously yet flippantly. “That hasn’t stopped me before.”

“Come take a look downstairs,” he offered. He started toward an elevator on the other side of the floor, and despite an inner urge not to, Shaw followed him. As he pressed the button, he looked at her. “You came highly recommended.”

Shaw didn’t respond. Instead, she memorized the route they took to Greer’s office. Easing around the corners with the expertise of a soldier, Shaw relaxed when they reached it.

The office offered the kind of warmth you’d find in an older person’s home. Leather couches, framed pictures; nothing about it suggested the palpable hostility in the air. On the table were bottles of expensive liquor, which immediately caught Shaw’s eye. Greer noticed, and when he went to sit down, he poured two glasses of whiskey. Shaw held it in her hand, but didn’t drink. Whiskey provided a certain haze that pulled her toward distraction; she needed to focus.

“I believe I should take a moment to explain what we do here.” Greer’s eyes sparkled in interest. “What you’re in is the Dollhouse. Here, our assets are not covert operatives, but are called Actives. These people have volunteered to have their unfortunate memories erased in exchange for their participation for an agreed upon period of time.”

Shaw’s brows furrowed. “Erasing memories isn’t possible.”

“With the right technology,” Greer corrected, “I believe you will find anything is possible.” He took a sip of whiskey from his glass. “In their resting state, our Actives are as innocent and vulnerable as children. We call it the _tabula rasa_ , the blank slate.”

Crossing her legs, Shaw sank into the couch, listening intently.

“Now imagine the imprint process,” Greer continued, more confident now that he had Shaw’s attention. “Filling it requires the creation of an entirely new personality. That’s where our tech specialist comes in. There is an endless sea of possibilities: a friend, a lover, a confidante. After every engagement, or mission,” he added, winking at her, “all memory of the client and the client’s time with the Active is wiped clean.”

“Why are you telling me all of this?” This felt shady and illegal, clinging to Shaw’s skin uncomfortably.

“Because, my dear, I have a feeling you’re going to accept my offer.”

Shaw resisted the urge to scoff and roll her eyes. “So, basically these are just programmable people, made to order. And the idiots ordering them are millionaires.”

“Sometimes, billionaires, too,” Greer corrected lightly. “But I’m afraid it’s a bit more complicated than that.” He reached over to the table and pressed a button on his cell phone. “Martine, please come in.”

A door on the other side of the room opened. The woman, Shaw assumed she was Martine, wore what Shaw had expected; she had on black slacks and a blazer, with a white shirt underneath. Her blonde hair was pinned on the top of her head, woven into a bun. The edges of her scalp were pulled tight by the intensity of the hairstyle.

“This is Martine Rousseau,” Greer introduced. “She’ll be giving you a tour and introducing you to everyone.”

Martine held out her hand. Shaw shook it. “Sameen Shaw.”

“You already know me,” the blonde joked. “Come on.”

She led Shaw into the rest of the Dollhouse. Martine walked with a confident stride, and Shaw rushed to keep up. Although Martine only had an inch on Shaw in height, her legs were longer. The hallway left nothing to the imagination; lights streamed down into every corner. The two of them passed several doors before coming to an elevator.

“Some people think this is weird.” Martine pushed the elevator button.

“Weird? I don’t see how.” Shaw’s sarcasm leaked out now that they were away from Greer.

Martine gave her a dry glare. “Mostly, all you have to do is sit in the van.” She stepped into the elevator, and Shaw followed her. The hum of the elevator filled the small space as they went deeper underground. When the doors opened, another hallway greeted them.

Taking the lead, Martine stepped in front of Shaw. “The place is built like a resort,” she said. They came to an area with holes in the floor, reminiscent of a graveyard, except glass covered the holes. There were five holes in all. The wood on the walls and hardwood on the floors created the illusion of peace, but Shaw had seen a wolf in sheep’s clothing before. Martine was right; the Dollhouse looked like a well-made resort, but the underground portion had the confining feeling of being inside a cruise ship. It was stifling.

“These are the sleeping pods,” Martine explained. She pointed toward the holes in the ground.

“Those are meant for people?” If Shaw felt suffocated now, she couldn’t begin to imagine how it would feel to sleep in one of those.

Martine smiled wryly. “We have three rooms total, and every night, barring engagement conflicts, our orphans go to bed.”

Shaw had the concrete feeling Martine resented her time here. That wasn’t a good sign.

As they proceeded down the hallway, they came face to face with a man in a well-tailored suit. He fit the description of “private security” in Shaw’s mind. Martine went right up to him and gave him a clap on the shoulder. The man didn’t move.

“This is Sam Shaw,” Martine told him, sweeping her arm out toward Shaw.

“Sameen,” Shaw corrected irritably. “You can just call me Shaw.”

The man nodded solemnly. “John Reese.”

“John here is our head of security.” Martine’s voice hinted she resented him for it, but she maintained an even smile. She patted him again for emphasis. “If you ever have a security problem, he’s the one to call.”

John met Shaw’s gaze, sharing some important, unspoken words. Shaw understood.

“It was nice to meet you,” John said, and the words were surprisingly warm. He shouldered past the two, leaving them alone in the hallway.

Martine held her arm out for Shaw to go first, so she did, walking a ways toward where the hallway opened up into a large room. It was just like a retreat, the kind Shaw had never taken. The sound of trickling water filled the room, immediately settling Shaw’s tension.

The well decorated, almost modern-style space left Shaw in awe. Rooms were sectioned off from the main space, and they walked over to the first one. Martine opened the door to reveal people, all of them sat in a circle with their own stations. Some had small trees before them and were cutting the leaves. The trimming added a calmer air to the room. When they peeked in, a woman in the corner smiled at them.

“The Dolls get five-star treatment.” Martine scoffed. “They even have arts and crafts.”

“Dolls? I thought they were called Actives.” Shaw ran her eyes across the people in the room, none of them looking back at her.

Martine closed the door, severing Shaw’s glimpse into her new job. “Officially. Unofficially, they’re Dolls. Like, you know, the Dollhouse.”

“I get it,” Shaw muttered. Talking to Martine was going to give her an ulcer.

The main space was empty, but Martine commanded the space just as easily as if it were filled. She was comfortable here, but Shaw, on the other hand, felt acute tension laced with suspicion. She still didn’t trust this place.

Shaw rolled her eyes, following Martine to a small bridge over what appeared to be a pond. “They have everything,” Martine said. “Hell, their sleeping arrangements are better than my shit apartment.”

“You act like you don’t like it here.” Shaw followed Martine to a staircase that climbed up toward the second floor of the Dollhouse.

“Are you kidding?” Martine stopped at the top of the staircase and looked back at her. “The pay is amazing. It’s probably the only reason I stick around.”

They walked along the catwalk. Shaw surveyed the area beneath them, getting a better view of the Dollhouse. There was a room they hadn’t walked by, and Shaw spent a long time trying to see through the open door. She finally drew her eyes away as Martine pushed through another set of doors, revealing an office.

It wasn’t like Greer’s office. There were papers everywhere, and another doorway revealed a chair in the middle of the room. It looked like a gadget out of a mad scientist’s imagination. The right wall was just windows, overlooking the rest of the Dollhouse. Whoever resided up here had a full view of their domain.

“This is Harold’s office.” Martine leaned against the desk, drumming her fingers on the faux wood. “Where he is, I couldn’t tell you.”

Shaw focused on the bookshelves, running her eyes across the CD-like objects filling them. They were labeled and sorted. “The NATO alphabet?”

“For the Dolls,” Martine explained. “It’s easier to distinguish them when they have names.”

A man limped out from behind a wall. “Which is why it’s necessary to keep them in order.” He looked pointedly at the shelf Shaw was currently perusing. Her fingers stilled on “Papa”. “So, please do not touch.”

Shaw took her hand back.

“Shaw, this is Harold Finch.” Martine stalked toward them like a panther going in for the kill. “The man who built the impending apocalypse.”

“Unfortunately, nothing quite that dramatic will be happening today,” Harold grumbled. He looked at Shaw. “Are you one of the new handlers?”

“Yeah.” Shaw moved away from the shelves. Her hands slipped into her pockets. “Does that mean I’m getting a Doll of my own?”

“Don’t call them that.” Harold sent Martine a glare, but the blonde merely shrugged. He pulled a file off his desk and flipped through it, before sighing. “You’ll be assigned to Whiskey.”

Martine emitted a long, loud groan. “Really? And I’m stuck with Alpha-can’t-fucking-tie-his-shoes.”

Ignoring her, Harold continued. “She’s very popular.” Shaw looked him up in down, taking in the expensive suit and the harried, tired eyes. Harold swallowed the lump in his throat. “You’ll have your work cut out for you.” He sounded somewhat resentful.

Martine snorted. “Yeah, Whiskey’s a real trip.” She clapped Shaw on the shoulder. “Good luck.”

  
  
  


 


	2. 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Plenty of men fantasized about her, Whiskey with the stars in her eyes.

Shaw’s first day entailed following Martine around like a puppy, except Shaw was a lot more bite than bark. For some reason, Greer had chose the most uninteresting handler for Shaw to shadow on an engagement; Martine was a bitch, but it didn’t make her interesting.

Shaw trailed behind Martine as they climbed the stairs to Harold’s office. “Your doll is Alpha, right?”

“The very one,” Martine replied over her shoulder. “He’s the dumbest man you’ll ever meet, but Harold tells me that’s just the fact that all he thinks about is swimming, eating, and shitting.”

Shaw hadn’t met Alpha yet, and even more weird, she hadn’t met Whiskey. How was she supposed to be learning how to defend these people if she didn’t even know them?

“Most of Alpha’s imprints have the British thing going on for them,” Martine continued. “So we get a lot of pervy millionaires who want this perfect British guy to sweep them off their feet.” She looked at Shaw. “Actually, he and Whiskey go on a lot of engagements together.”

Great. More time with Martine. Shaw resisted dragging her feet the few steps it took to reach the office. Harold was already in there, working on one of the computers. Martine moved to stand over his shoulder, eyes taking in the screen. “Are we ready yet?”

“Almost,” Harold said. He glanced at Shaw, then returned to his work. Shaw was careful not to touch anything. “There,” Harold continued. “Mr. Reese should be here any moment with Alpha.”

Martine turned and leaned on Harold’s desk, folding her arms across her chest. “What is he today? Explain more than necessary for the new girl.”

Harold sighed. “Alpha is one Matthew Fisher.” He scrolled through the file on his computer. “Mr. Fisher is meeting our client at a hotel. They were highschool sweethearts.”

Shaw hadn’t been told much about what the Dollhouse actually did, besides providing people with what they wanted. She listened carefully. Although the job seemed tedious, Shaw knew she would be able to do it well. It was nothing more than general private security.

John Reese walked through the door, silent as always, and behind him was a man who hadn’t shaved in days. The shadow across his face made him look even more washed out than he was. He was tall, had thick brown hair, and when he entered the room, his eyes immediately went to Martine. “My treatment,” he said. He must have been Alpha.

“Yes.” Martine’s voice took on a different register. She stepped toward Alpha and put her hands on his shoulders. Shaw couldn’t put her finger on what passed between them, but something happened. Something odd and almost unreal.

Martine turned back to the rest of them. “Let’s get this show on the road.”

The show happened to be taking place in the other room. Shaw followed everyone into the room with the chair that looked like it belonged in a science fiction film, complete with bondage capability near the wrists and ankles.

To Shaw’s surprise, Alpha beelined for the chair, settling into it easily. He leaned back, let his head stretch backward, and closed his eyes.

“For each engagement, the Active is imprinted with a personality to suit the client’s needs,” Harold explained. He held up one of the CD-like hard drives that Shaw noticed her first time in here. “This is a wedge. The personality is downloaded onto it for easy access.”

It was one of those things you had to see to believe, Shaw decided. She didn’t look away as Harold slipped the wedge into an appropriate slot, and then tapped at a control console. The imprint chair lit up and whirred; Alpha’s body suddenly seized, tipping his head further into the console.

The lights died after a moment. Alpha opened his eyes, blinked at the three of them, and said, “Where’s Janice?”

Martine stepped in. “I’ll take you to her.” She held out a hand for Alpha, who took it cautiously.

Alpha was still wearing his pajama-like outfit that all the Dolls had. Shaw followed them into the large room filled with an extensive wardrobe. Martine stalked through the stacks until she reached a section labeled ‘Alpha’. She grabbed a bagged hanger; inside was a suit. She handed it to Alpha, who nodded his approval.

As Alpha stripped to change, Martine went to stand near Shaw. She pointed to the stacks and stacks of clothing. “Each section has clothing specifically tailored for the Active,” she explained. “Whiskey’s is at the end. Alphabetical order.”

“Makes sense.” Shaw ran her eyes over the clothes on the hanger. In just Alpha’s section, there were clothes for many trades. In the back, there was what looked like a firefighter’s suit. She didn’t really want to know what that was for.

They walked to the motor pool next, and they slipped into a van that Martine had the keys for. Shaw settled in the back and took in the extensive technology against the walls of the van.

While she enjoyed the bumpy ride, Martine made small talk with Alpha. Shaw learned his name was Matthew Fisher, and that Martine had been right. He was British. She wondered how the accent figured into cases like these, such as with Matthew being someone’s high school sweetheart.

Shaw didn’t ask the many questions she had on her mind, not while Alpha was there to hear them. She waited until Matthew Fisher slipped out the door and walked straight up to the front door of a house. Climbing into the front seat, Shaw watched a woman open the door and gasp, drawing Alpha into her arms. She sent one sparing glance toward the van parked on the street before pulling him inside.

“How are we supposed to watch them when they’re out of sight?” Shaw stared at the front door of the house.

Martine craned her neck toward the back. “That’s what all that is for.” She turned the van off, pocketed the keys, and then brushed past Shaw to get in the back. “All of this tells us his heart rate, gives us audio if we like, although I prefer to keep that off, and most of all, it’s our only eyes into the engagement.”

Martine’s knee brushed Shaw’s, but there was nowhere else for Shaw to go and make room for her. “The clients like at least some anonymity, so we don’t stalk them through crowds or peek into windows. We’ll know if anything happens.”

“Hasn’t that backfired?” Shaw remembered her time in the ISA. It was a time full of hidden cameras, bugs, and kicking doors down. She preferred to do things the invasive way, but then again, her targets weren’t paying for her treatment.

Martine shook her head. “Not particularly.”

Shaw didn’t ask her to elaborate. Shaw and Martine spent the entire afternoon, evening, and night stuck in that van. Martine made good small talk, but Shaw felt as though she were talking to an Active. Shaw settled on asking the questions, rather than answering Martine’s slightly invasive repertoire.

“Have you always been in private security?”

Martine smirked. “Don’t let Greer hear you call it that. He likes to believe we’re doing something more important.”

“You didn’t answer my question.” Shaw had spent plenty of time around people who dodged getting to the point.

“I’ve always been in private security,” Martine replied. “It’s a good gig, if you’re good at it.” The way she said it made Shaw positive that Martine thought she was good at it. “Is this your first time?”

Shaw shrugged. “You could say that. It’s always seemed kind of menial to me.”

It was nearing two in the morning, and Shaw’s throat ached for a coffee. They hadn’t left the van even once, and Shaw wasn’t even sure it was allowed. Stakeouts were never her thing, and Cole was the one who always stayed in the van. Shaw blinked. She hadn’t let herself think of Cole for a long time.

“It’s only menial if you don’t do it right,” Martine defended, and that was the end of that conversation.

Shaw would like to say that she watched the heart rate monitor until morning, but she leaned back against the opposite wall and closed her eyes for brief moments of time. Martine said nothing about it, so Shaw didn’t bring it up. Around nine in the morning, Alpha slipped out the front door with a woman in his arms.

She kissed him, let him go, and then pulled him back toward her for one last press of his lips. They looked like smitten lovers, the kind Shaw used to make fun of in her free time. “How does he do it?” Shaw shook her head. “Harold, I mean.”

Martine glanced toward Alpha, now coming down the driveway. She took him in over the top of her sunglasses. “It took me a while to get used to it, too.”

She didn’t answer Shaw’s question, but Shaw didn’t press. She made room for Alpha in the car, slipping into the back of the van. Alpha’s hair was mussed, his shirt was wrinkled, but he looked happy. Different than the serene expression he’d had before he went into the chair.

“Ready for your treatment?” Martine asked, grinning at Alpha.

He nodded. “And after I can go back to Janice. We really hit it off.”

Martine started the van before glancing back at Shaw to shake her head. It rumbled to life and petered onto the main road easily. The drive back was relatively silent, and Shaw was able to take in the scenery better than before. She knew Los Angeles better now that she’d been there for a few weeks. It was still very different than New York.

They drove underground to the motor pool of the Dollhouse, and Alpha was the first one to hop out of the van. Martine opened the back door for Shaw.

“Normally, I don’t watch for this part, but for your sake, I’ll accompany you.” Martine nudged Shaw’s arm toward the elevator Alpha was already standing in. The three of them made a tight fight, but the elevator ride was short.

They walked back to Harold’s office, following the lead of Alpha, who knew exactly where to go. Shaw herself didn’t even have the complete lay of the Dollhouse’s interior. She was impressed.

Alpha went straight for the chair again. Harold was ready for them, slipping a new wedge into the slot. The chair whirred, same as before, and Alpha’s entire body went stiff, forcing his head further into the console. Shaw understood why Martine didn’t stick around for this part.

Alpha blinked his eyes open. Shaw could immediately tell there was something different about him. “Hello, Alpha,” Harold said. “How are you feeling?”

“Did I fall asleep?” he murmured, looking to Harold.

Harold gazed down at him. “For a little while.”

Alpha turned his head, ran his eyes over Martine and Shaw. “Shall I go now?”

The question was directed at Harold, but Alpha stared directly at Martine. “If you like,” Harold responded before marking down a note on a clipboard.

Set on a mission, Alpha climbed out of the chair’s embrace and brushed past Shaw and Martine, exiting the room. Shaw wondered what the hell she’d just witnessed.

“That was creepy,” she muttered.

Martine smirked at her. “You better get used to it.”

 

.

 

The next day, Harold called Shaw in. “It’s time to meet Whiskey,” he told her ominously. He told her nothing more, so Shaw showed up in Harold’s office expecting nothing other than a woman.

Whiskey was standing near the chair when Shaw entered. The way her body reacted, slow and purposeful as Shaw walked in, alerted Shaw that she was still in her resting state.

Whiskey was tall, slim, and the type of woman that looked suspicious all of the time. She was pretty, with hair that curled on her shoulders and fell in dark, brown waves. Shaw’s own hair was straight and long. Back when she was a kid, Shaw had been envious of the other girls with curly hair, but right now, she didn’t give a shit. She couldn’t stop thinking about all the men who ordered Whiskey specifically.

Plenty of men fantasized about her, this childlike woman with the stars in her eyes.

Reese stood next to her, hovering, and Shaw looked him up and down. He was used to being seen, not heard.

He helped Whiskey get to the chair. Shaw made note of the gentle hand on Whiskey’s back. Whiskey settled into the chair like it was an old friend, leaning back into it. She smiled at Harold, who readied the console.

“Is it time for my treatment?” Her voice had the same, dreamlike quality to it that Alpha’s did.

Harold’s entire demeanor changed when he was around the Actives. He never frowned, like he did when it was just him and the handlers. He peered down at Whiskey and pressed wires to her head. “Yes,” he answered, “but this is a very special one, Whiskey.”

Reese moved to the corner of the room, disappearing.

Whiskey nodded, content with the answer. She noticed Shaw. “Hello,” she said. “You’re short.”

Shaw rolled her eyes, unable to contain the scoff that crawled up her throat. She’d heard that one before, but she never expected to hear it now. Next to her, she heard Reese snicker under his breath, and she glared at him darkly. Shaw pushed off the wall and took a step closer to Whiskey and Harold.

Shaw sighed. “Do I really have to be here for this? This is weird.”

“The Handler-Active imprint requires a direct line of sight,” Harold explained, “ so she needs to be looking right into your eyes as the imprint is activated.”

Shaw hesitated before looking at Whiskey, only to find Whiskey’s brown eyes already fixed on her. The gaze tickled at her skin, prickling at it. Harold got the device ready as she acclimated herself to being this close to Whiskey, who still creeped her out. She almost missed it when Reese slipped out of the room, like a ghost.

Shaw coughed. “Stare into each other’s eyes and spontaneous kinship?” She’d noticed something unspoken between Martine and Alpha.

Glaring at Shaw, Harold’s touch whilst connecting the wires to Whiskey’s skin was light, gentle. “This isn’t about friendship, Ms. Shaw. It’s about building trust, except we don’t have time to build anything around here, so you’re correct about the spontaneity.” He put a hand on Whiskey’s shoulder, an odd display of comfort. “From this point on, Whiskey will always trust you without question, or hesitation, no matter what the circumstance.”

Suddenly, Shaw thought of Cole, of having someone’s back, and of trust being taken too far. She didn’t trust _trust_ , but the wires strapped to Whiskey’s chest were too official to argue with.

“You’re about to become the most important person in her life.” Harold’s voice lowered, taking on a solemn tone.

Shaw swallowed the lump in her throat.

“Okay, then.” Harold pressed a button, and the chair whirred. This time, Whiskey didn’t seize, merely blinked at the both of them. Harold held a piece of paper out toward Shaw.

“What’s this?” On it were lines for her. A script.

“A neural lock and key. Oh, and you’ve got to hold her hand.”

“Her hand?”

“That is what I said,” Harold muttered, and Shaw swore he was testing her over the thin rims of his glasses.

Shaw had been maintaining a wide berth before that moment, but she forced herself to move closer to Whiskey. As her hand slipped into Whiskey’s open palm, she was hit with the realization that Whiskey was a real life person, complete with a stuttering pulse beneath her skin. Shaw gulped.

“So, I say it now, or…” As soon as she spoke, Whiskey’s eyes drift to her, first to their joined hands and then to Shaw’s face, both curious and serene.

The chair started humming. “Just say what’s on the sheet,” Harold urged.

“Okay, uh,” Shaw started, reading the lines before her. “Everything’s going to be all right.” It sounded fake, but the hand gripping hers squeezed just a bit tighter.

Whiskey smiled, close-lipped and wide. “Now that you’re here.”

Shaw hadn’t expected this. It felt powerful, almost. She broke the eye contact to look back at the sheet. “Do you trust me?”

“With my life.” Whiskey’s answer was immediate.

Her voice was reverent, and her gaze scoured Shaw’s insides, shaking her to the core. Shaw took her hand back. She looked to Harold, who had his back turned from the both of them, scanning the monitors. Relief flooded through her when she realized that Harold hadn’t been watching them.

“We done?” She took a pointed step away from Whiskey.

Harold waved her off. “Yes, yes. Reese will call you if she gets picked up for an engagement.”

Shaw turned on her heel and left. She needed to get the hell away from here.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Special thanks to SpicyCheese for beta'ing! Hope you guys enjoyed :)


	3. 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Amidst the chaos of humanity, Whiskey managed to look perfect.

“An easy one for your first solo engagement.” Greer smiled wryly before he left, leaving Shaw to her own devices.

Shaw stood in the motor pool, leaning against her assigned van, and crossed her arms. She’d opted to stay outside for the imprint process, rather than watch. She’d seen it all with Martine, and she didn’t want to see it again.

She was still having trepidations about the whole situation. Greer assured her (so did Martine, John, and a few other handlers) all the Actives were there of their own will. Somewhere, buried in Harold’s wall of wedges, were the original imprints of every single Active. Shaw figured it wouldn’t be accepted by as many people if it were illegal.

When Whiskey walked through the elevator doors on her own, wearing a long skirt and a plaid shirt, she was a different person. Her smile reached to her ears, baring her teeth; it was unalike the close-lipped smile Whiskey gave her during the Handler-Active imprint. Shaw thought, just for a moment, this girl might’ve been the real deal.

That Shaw truly was in private security, and no protecting some mindless shell.

The illusion broke when Harold’s voice filtered through her earpiece. She’d forgotten it was there. “Her name is Sally,” he informed her. “If you care to know.”

So he’d noticed when she didn’t show up and watch the imprint. “I thought I’d just ask her.” Shaw’s voice dipped away as Whiskey-Sally came closer; Shaw opened the door for her. Whiskey blushed, the color quick to rise to her cheeks, and brushed past Shaw to climb into the passenger seat of the van. She didn’t say a word.

Shaw skirted around the front of the vehicle, running the brief John had given her through her mind. This was a “regular” romantic engagement, the kind she’d accompanied Martine on. She had to tail the Active and the client in the van, monitor the Active’s vitals, and step in if anything went wrong.

Glancing at Whiskey-Sally in the passenger seat, Shaw twisted the key in the ignition. It made her sick to her stomach, thinking about the type of person who fantasized about this - some bug-eyed, braided girl from Texas who will fall head over heels for the client as soon as she puts eyes on them.

Shaw was an accomplice to a modern form of prostitution.

As they drove, Whiskey-Sally was silent, and Shaw considered it odd; she’d been told by the other handlers Whiskey was a talkative one, even in the tabula rasa. Whenever Shaw saw her after the imprint, Whiskey made an effort to talk to her.

Knuckles tightening around the steering wheel, the silence prickled at Shaw. It wasn’t as if she wanted Whiskey-Sally to break the silence, but it was deafening and, most of all, irritating. Why wasn’t she talking?

Shaw shook her head, forcing her eyes to stay on the road. “So, who’re you meeting?” She already knew the answer, John had been very in-depth with his briefing of her, but she asked anyway.

“His name’s Jensen.” Sally’s voice was so matter-of-fact Shaw almost didn’t immediately notice the accent. And, oh  _ shit _ , it was the epitome of everything Southern. Almost as if Shaw’s question broke the dam, Whiskey-Sally started talking in lightning speed, filling the thick car air with her drawl. “He’s not the typical guy, you know? He loves science, and I think the sciences are fascinating. I saw his picture online, and he’s not, like, conventionally good-looking, but…”

It occurred to Shaw, as she tuned her out, her accent might be an all-the-time thing. Like Alpha. She hoped not.

In all honesty, Shaw couldn’t wait to lay eyes on this guy, the millionaire who pre-ordered the perfect Southern bell of his dreams. She grinded her teeth, tightened her jaw, and forced herself to listen again.

“Do you have someone waiting for you back home?” Whiskey-Sally sounded curious; her voice took on a different tone, something both considerate and curious.

“Nope.”

The answer was easy. She’d never had anyone waiting for her. One person had ever waited on her: Cole. Even then, he knew he could rely on her to meet up for missions. They always knew where they were going next, and when. She and Cole disappeared between missions but they always showed up at some point. Shaw liked it that way; it kept missions efficient, non-personal. Sometimes.

“That’s too bad.” Whiskey-Sally folded her hands in her lap. “It’s nice to feel wanted.”

Shaw responded with a grunt of agreement before she glanced over at her. She found a wide smile waiting for her. She wondered how the few smiles she’d received from Whiskey could be so different. Shaw stared back for what was probably longer than acceptable, because Whiskey-Sally’s smile faltered, and she turned to look out the window.

Neither of them had noticed arriving at the cafe minutes ago.

Whiskey-Sally leaned forward, a bit too close, and grasped Shaw’s wrist. “I’m sure you’ll find someone to come home to, Ms. Shaw.”

The name was unexpected, because Shaw hadn’t even introduced herself. Harold must’ve programmed her with it already.

Whiskey-Sally squeezed the joint beneath her fingers; the touch burned. Shaw wasn’t sure what to think about Whiskey’s personhood quite yet, but she felt the sentiment all the same.

“Funny,” Whiskey-Sally hummed. She looked down at her hand on Shaw’s wrist. “I don’t even know you, I don’t remember meeting you, but I trust you.”

Clearing her throat, Shaw took her hand back. “Crazy how that works.” Shaw pointed at the cafe. “I think you’re going to be late for your date. I’ll pick you up for your treatment tomorrow.”

Whiskey-Sally checked herself in the mirror; already nerves were making her jittery. “I hope he’s not a creep.” Her hesitation was evident in the slight shudder of her hands. Shaw wondered if Harold programmed her that way. “I’m always so awkward on blind dates. Do I look okay?”

Her question was genuine. She turned her gaze toward Shaw with eager eyes. Shaw thought she looked fine, but as Shaw opened her mouth to say it, she noticed the small, insignificant features of Whiskey. The way her hair curled against her cheek, or the faint shadow of makeup on her eyelids. Her collarbones peeked out from the top of her half-unbuttoned shirt.  Amidst the chaos of humanity, she’d managed to look perfect.

“Yeah, yeah. You look fine.” Shaw shook her head. “Go before it’s already tomorrow.”

Whiskey-Sally grinned that wide grin again before she stepped out of the car. She straightened her skirt, pulled at her hair, and slipped in through the front doors of the cafe. Shaw watched her sit at table near the window, finding a spot opposite of a man who was mildly ugly. He looked expensive, at the very least, and he stood up to kiss Sally’s cheek. Her cheeks burned red.

Even redder than they did when Shaw opened the door for her. She must blush a lot.

Shaw resituated the van so it was across the street, poking out of an alley, before crawling into the back of it.

.

If sitting in the van with Martine for an entire night was boring, sitting in one alone made Shaw too restless. Harold didn’t do small talk; she’d tried several times to pry personal information out of him, but he shut her down. Staying in the van was always Cole’s job; it wasn't Shaw's thing. Even the repetitive beating of the heart monitor pulled at her subconscious, urging her to fall asleep. She’d already done that once, and she wasn’t about to do it again.

A book occupied her for about twenty minutes. She put it away when Jensen and Sally walked from the cafe to an expensive car parked out front. Grudgingly, she followed them through some of Los Angeles’s worst traffic.

It felt a lot worse than monitoring. It felt a bit like stalking.

She tapped her earpiece on again. “Are you monitoring any other dolls right now?”

“Just yours.” Harold’s voice was already getting familiar in her ear.

Yours. Whiskey, hers. Shaw repressed the shiver that skittered down her spine. “Not mine,” she corrected. Her eyes went to Sally’s hand on Jensen’s shoulder through the back window. “RIght now, she’s Jensen’s.” Shaw relaxed into a steady drive. “That is what they’re buying, right? Technical ownership for a set number of hours. For a high price.” She muttered the last part.

“I suppose.”

Harold kept to the vague and non-specific when he was lying. Shaw shook her head, letting the frustration pass her. She understood he was moving the conversation along, but she also felt like quitting if he was the single person she could talk to on engagements like this one. She wanted to know what was going to make her stay.

“So, why don’t you monitor their phones, or what’s happening with the client besides vitals?” It was her making small talk.

Jensen pulled into the driveway of an expensive house, and Shaw parked across the street. Sally tripped on the walk up to the front door, and Jensen swept her into his arms and carried her across the threshold. So much for a first date.

“We must remain impartial when we assure our clients their engagements will remain private.” At least Harold was indulging her.

“What if he rapes her? Or kills her?”

Harold sighed. His breath scratched across the connection, almost too loud at the settings Shaw had set. “You are there for a reason, Ms. Shaw. Any damage to the Active comes with a fee, and there’s nothing we can’t fix.”

“Besides death.”

“Yes. If he kills her, you will surely be fired for not stepping in quick enough.” She could almost picture Harold rubbing at his temples. “When they sign up for this, they are signing away their life. For a period of time. Death is one of the risks. One we work hard to combat.”

Whatever question Shaw had died in her throat. It made sense she would be blamed, but if there was nothing she could do? Absolutely nothing? She was here for protection. Shaw could do that, at least.

The vital signs were helpful. She resolved to make a genuine effort in monitoring them, even if her new job was a lot of just sitting and waiting.

Sit and wait, she did. She spent a solid three hours waiting for the sun to go down. Once the natural sunlight was gone, she couldn’t read her book, so she propped her feet up in the back and scrolled through her phone. If the Dollhouse was going to pay her for sitting on her ass, they might as well cover her data bill, too.

Around eleven, when the most exciting occurrence was a neighbor’s dog running loose down the street, Whiskey’s vitals spiked. Shaw jolted straight, pressing her finger to her ear. “Finch? Are you getting this?”

“Yes, but -”

“I’m going in.” Shaw pulled her gun from her waistband, adrenaline kicking her into action. She clip clicked into place. She cocked the weapon, ready to jump into the action she didn’t realize she’d been craving for months.

“ _ Wait _ .” Harold’s voice was quick and full of apprehension. She stopped with one foot out the driver’s side door. “Those aren’t panic signs.”

“Her heart’s racing, her blood’s pumping - what else could it be?”

“Intercourse, Ms. Shaw.”

Shaw froze, a hand curling around the door. Her finger, previously on the trigger of her gun, slipped away from it. She rested it on the dashboard as she sunk into the seat. She took a deep breath, calming her own racing heartbeat. In the back, Whiskey’s vitals climbed even higher.

It made sense, the sex, but it just clicked in her head. Jensen had picked Whiskey out for this. In Harold’s tone, there had been warning, and a little bit of pity. Shaw shook herself out of it.

“That makes sense,” she muttered. She felt like a too eager recruit going off alone on their first day, only to screw up. After climbing into the back of the van once again, she traced the heartbeat monitor with her eyes. “Has that ever happened before? With a new handler?”

“Almost every time.” Harold was lying again, but it did make her feel better.

She leaned back and settled in for the night. It was going to be a long one, narrated by the continuous beeping of the monitor. She considered turning it off. The more she thought about it, she was grateful they didn’t have audio or visual of the Actives. She didn’t know how that would feel.

She cleared her throat. “So, am I allowed to go get take out?”

.

Around five in the morning, Shaw got a coffee. Harold assured her, through various yawns, Handlers stray from engagements like this all of the time. The only thing that quelled her reluctance was the fact the drive-through coffee was just down the street, and the fact she was falling asleep enough without the caffeine.

It’s noon when Whiskey-Sally finally comes through the front door. Shaw was already in the driver’s seat, waiting.

She watched Jensen press Whiskey-Sally’s thin frame against the door, kissing her and holding her hips, before reluctantly letting her go. Whiskey-Sally yelled out to him, promising she would be back.

Biting her lip, Whiskey-Sally opened the door and slid into the passenger seat. Shaw started the van and drove off, ignoring Jensen’s gaze pricking at them through the rearview mirror.

“I’ve never stayed the night after a first date before,” Whiskey-Sally admitted. She was smitten and kissed; the hickeys dotting her skin were evidence to what Shaw saw all over the monitors last night. “But he’s so  _ wonderful _ , Sameen. You’ll have to meet him. I’m going to call him after my treatment. You’ll be here to pick me up again, right?”

“Sure.”

Harold had briefed her about this. Harold programmed them all with return times, so they knew when to come back, but they had no idea they were going to disappear. The Actives made plans to see the person again, while the client knew they wouldn’t unless they called for them again. Shaw didn’t make the call for extra engagements. She just drove.

Soon enough, they were back at the Dollhouse. Whiskey-Sally turned to Shaw, her lower lip trapped between her teeth. “You’ll wait for me? I’m going to call him as soon as I’m out.”

“I’ll be here.” Shaw wouldn’t, though.

She wasn’t expecting Whiskey-Sally to lean forward and press a kiss to her cheek. Before Shaw had a moment to process, Whiskey-Sally slipped out the door. “Thanks!” She went right to the elevator.

Shaw sat in the van a few moments longer, reminding herself over and over again Sally wasn’t human. Whiskey wasn’t even human, just a shell of her former self.

Just a shell.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Festivus! #)


	4. 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The job was simple. Shaw was just there for the ride.

The most exciting engagements for Shaw were the ones that forced her to get out of the van. Whiskey got requested at least two times a week, but not all of them were romantic. Harold mentioned at some point that the dangerous jobs increased tenfold when the Dollhouse took Shaw on. Greer, of course, had said nothing.

When she waltzed into Harold’s office, she found Whiskey already sitting in the chair, waiting. She smiled that closed-mouth smile, and Shaw searched the rest of the office for Harold. She ignored the complete trust in Whiskey’s expression. She’d seen that look before.

She forced her eyes to Harold, in the corner of the outer office, as he leafed through various imprints.

“So, who is she today?”

Harold looked up suddenly, like he hadn’t noticed her come in. Over the past few weeks, Shaw had gotten to know him better, and she knew that much didn’t get past him. He was very perceptive, kept a keen eye on his surroundings, and he seemed ready for anything. Just like her.

“An assassin.” He pulled the correct wedge out of the case. “It’s not something we do very often, but for a very high price, it can be done.” He looked at her, pushed his glasses up his nose. “If you’d rather sit this one out, it’s completely understandable. This imprint is generally very self-capable.”

Shaw glanced at Whiskey. Sweet, innocent, couldn’t-hurt-a-fly Whiskey. She was staring at nothing, maybe the dust mites in the air. Even now, after almost two months on the job, Shaw couldn’t imagine filling someone’s head with more than just a personality. Skills didn’t include taking a life. 

She also couldn’t imagine anyone but herself protecting her.

“What’s the assassin’s name?”

“Samantha Groves.” Harold plugged the wedge into the computer, typed a few commands. “Although, I’m sure you’ll find out quickly that she has an affinity for a nickname.”

Whiskey sat in the chair without complaint. Shaw stood in the corner, her arms crossed, and watched Whiskey morph into someone new. Whiskey closed her eyes, and when she opened them again, she was someone entirely different.

Sitting up, she looked over both Shaw and Harold blatantly. She noticed the gun on Shaw’s hip, quirked an eyebrow, and said, “So, it’s that kind of party.”

“Ms. Groves, I’m sure you’ll like to get dressed.” Harold limped away from them both, shutting the wedge away in the cupboard. “Ms. Shaw will escort you, and then the two of you will be briefed by Mr. Greer.”

“She’ll escort me, will she?” Samantha Groves smiled. Shaw wondered, not for the first time, how many different ways one face could smile. Groves’ smile was crooked, biting one side of her lip.

Harold sighed. “Yes.” He disappeared into the other room.

Groves lead the way, and Shaw followed quietly behind her. As they walked, Shaw clocked her. She walked differently than any of the other imprints Shaw had met. Her shoulders were squared, and she carelessly glanced around the Dollhouse like she owned it. Even her hair fell differently. It must’ve been the way she was holding her head.

Stilling in Whiskey’s section, Groves stopped dead in her tracks. Shaw almost ran into her. She turned, smiled that crooked smile when she realized how close Shaw was, and then put her hand on a shirt.

“What do you think I should wear?” Shaw swore the ghost of Groves’ breath danced across her own lips.

Alone in the large room, amongst the racks and racks of clothing, they were hidden from the exits. The answer that popped into Shaw’s head was almost obscene.

Groves stepped even closer, and Shaw regained her senses, taking a step back. “Ms. Groves -”

“My name is Root.”

“ _ Root _ .” The lack of formality felt thick in her throat. “We’re on a bit of a time schedule.”

Root shrugged her off. She turned back to the rack of clothing and perused through it. She settled on black jeans, a gray t-shirt, and a leather jacket. She wasted no time in stripping out of the old and slipping into the new. Shaw barely had time to avert her gaze.

Strolling past her, Root dared Shaw to keep up. There were very few times Shaw hated being short, and this was one of them. Whiskey had long legs, and almost all of her imprints knew how to use them. Shaw struggled to keep up most of the time. Root, she owned her pace, glancing back periodically at Shaw. She smirked like she knew exactly what she was doing.

Root lead her to Greer’s office, the smirk melting off her face when Shaw knocked on the door.

“Ms. Groves.” Greer welcomed the two of them, nodding at Shaw as she found her place in the background. He walked around the room as if he were talking to a client, Shaw noticed. Whatever this was must be a big deal. Root exuded an air of professionalism seemingly out of nowhere.

The job was simple, from what Shaw could tell. Root wasn’t even going to be the one doing the killing. She was the orchestrator, a hidden face behind a cloaked cell phone. Greer talked to Root like she was intelligent, and Shaw had no doubt he was right.

Who would hire a Doll, rather than any old hitman? Shaw crossed her arms, listening. She got the bare minimum of details, but she was sure Root absorbed everything there was to know. At least one of them knew what they were doing. All trace of Root’s playfulness were gone as she focused on nothing except Greer’s words. When he finished, Root nodded, stood up to shake his hand, and then lead Shaw back to the door.

“Ms. Shaw, a moment.” Shaw corrected her trajectory to stand near Greer.

Root bowed her head, slipped out the door, and Shaw waited.

“Keep an eye on her, if you will. I don’t know if Harold told you, but we’ve had some trouble with this imprint in the past. Harold has made some modifications, but she’s very unpredictable. You’re the only one who can keep her in line.”

That was the opposite of what Harold had told her, but Shaw nodded anyway. “She’s a killer. If there’s something she wants to do, she’ll do it.”

“Then you understand why we must take precautions. For the client’s sake and for hers.”

Shaw nodded and slipped out the door to stand by Root, waiting for the elevator. The stood in silence, the air crackling around them. Shaw was acutely aware of Root’s presence beside her. The way she held herself was almost distracting. Just before the elevator arrived, Root leaned in. Shaw couldn’t help but stiffen.

“Listen,” Root said. She was too close; Shaw could smell her perfume. When did she get that? “I don’t need a babysitter. I’m a big girl.”

She left Shaw to go stand in the elevator. 

When the elevator started moving, Shaw let out the breath she was holding. “I’m just here to help. Consider me backup.” Root gave her a look, and Shaw was quick to add, “Not that you’ll need any.”

“I don’t get my hands dirty.” Root gave Shaw a curious glance. “That much.”

Shaw let Root go ahead of her when the elevator stopped, before skirting around the van to slip into the driver’s seat. Whatever this engagement was, it was going to be a long one.

 

.

 

Root did about as well as Shaw when it came to staying in the van. While it was almost refreshing to have Whiskey sitting in the spot next to her and not in someone’s bed, Shaw found sharing the space insufferable. She had just gotten used to it, and Root was a whole other problem. She didn’t do well in tight spaces, and Shaw wondered if that applied to all of them, or just Root.

Either way, she got up and got out of the van about every thirty minutes.

Root had a computer in a bag she picked up from the wardrobe, but she didn’t have a gun. At first, Shaw was wary of giving a Doll access to the internet, but Root’s fingers flew across the keyboard like she was born for typing, and she contacted a hitman in no time. 

The job was simple. Shaw was just there for the ride.

While Root was communicating with the gunman, Shaw stared out the van window and at the street, watching the people walk down the sidewalk in the night. Root was good at her job, just like Shaw was, and sooner than later, all they had to do was wait.

Once business was business, set aside for a few hours, that crooked smile returned to Root’s lips, and she climbed into the passenger seat. Something about her expression felt like she was about to pry into Shaw’s life.

Something about the way she looked, the way her eyes drifted down Shaw’s neck, drinking her in, told Shaw she wanted to know more than just her worklife. “Ms. Shaw,” she said, tasting the name. “Do you have a first name? I feel as though I’m supposed to know it.”

There was a tug at the back of Shaw’s brain, telling her not to tell Root, but she did anyway. Her own name rolled off her tongue. 

“Sameen.” Root smiled again. “It’s pretty.”

Shaw scowled, turning again to the window to hide the flush that somehow had creeped its way up her neck like ivy, infectious and completely without permission. 

Root was about to say something else, but her phone rang, cutting her off. Shaw only caught one side of the conversation, but by the end of it, Root was sliding out of the van and looking more than pissed off. Shaw went after her. 

“What’s up?”

Root sighed, crossing her arms. “I’m going to need a dress. Our gunman decided to take the money for himself.”

“All of it?” This wasn’t good.

“All of it,” Root confirmed. “Which means he’s just become part of the job.” Root opened the back of the van, slipped her hand underneath the flooring, and pulled out a gun. Shaw widened her eyes.

“Has that been there the entire time?”

Root winked at her before slipping the weapon into her waistband. “I left it there last time.” She stalked off, leaving Shaw more confused than she had been in months.

Shaw didn’t have time to think about what Root meant. She jogged after her, noticing the tell-tale bulge of a fully-loaded gun, as Harold’s voice filled her earpiece, asking too many questions Shaw wasn’t prepared to answer. Shaw checked her own gun, and then focused on what Harold was saying.

“Ms. Shaw? Is everything going according to plan?”

“Not exactly.” The words squeezed between her gritted teeth. She barely caught the top of Root’s head through the crowd, and when Root turned into a store on a busy street, Shaw took a moment to stand outside of it and catch her breath. “The gunman is running out with the client’s money. More than his agreed share. Root’s decided to get it all back.”

Silence on the other end. Shaw glanced back into the store, catching a glimpse of Root as she walked through racks of clothing. Then, “I’m sending Mr. Reese to you for backup.”

“No. I can handle this.” She growled more than said it, her anger leaking into her voice.

“This is your first major engagement, the first time you’ve had to deal with anything even remotely dangerous. He’ll be in the background, just in case.”

In the background. Like always. Shaw groaned, loud enough so Harold caught it on his end. She leaned against the side of the building, crossing her arms. Ever since she started working at the Dollhouse, she’d had the feeling that Harold didn’t completely trust her, and now that confirmed it. He didn’t want the dolls getting hurt, sure, but she could more than handle herself, especially with a programmed killer. Root was more than capable.  _ Shaw’s _ more than capable.

Root showed up before Shaw could really go off at Harold, carrying two shopping bags in her arms.

“I’m surprised you didn’t steal it.”

Root laughed, melodic and loud, and then she handed a bundle of fabric over to Shaw. Standing there with a dress hanging from her hands, Shaw looked at it like she’d never seen anything of its kind before.

“What am I supposed to do with this?” Admittedly, the silk did feel nice.

“Wear it.” Root looked her up and down. “It might be a little tight. I had to guess your size.”

Shaw glared, and they walked back to the van in tense silence. They climbed into the back, slipping into their new clothes. Having her own clothing to change into distracted Shaw away from catching glimpses of Root’s bare skin, but as she peeled out of her own boots and jeans, she thought she caught Root staring. After she slid into a too-tight dress, she confirmed it. Root was definitely staring. Staring and smirking. 

“Need help with the zipper?” Root’s smile was practically devilish. Before Shaw could object, Root crossed the small space and put a hand on Shaw’s hip, with another trailing along Shaw’s lower back.

Her finger blazed across Shaw’s skin, pulling up the metal zipper and dragging a nail across Shaw’s back at the same time. Shaw didn’t breathe, not until she was zipped up and Root was on the other side of the van. When she did, she realized Root somehow managed to snag a different perfume. She smelled like citrus, just hints of sparks and zest that settled on the edge of Shaw’s senses like a watermark.

“Shall we?” Root’s eyes sparkled in the reflection of the streetlamps.

Shaw ignored the hand held out to her, choosing instead to help herself down, using the edge of the van as leverage.

She realized the moment her feet touched the ground neither of them had shoes.

“Don’t worry.” Root read her mind. “We don’t need them.”

“I’m not walking six blocks barefoot.” But Shaw followed after Root anyway.

Her eyes wandered as they walked. Root in a blue dress wasn’t unappealing, and the fabric hugged her figure nicely, clinging around her chest and waist in all the right places. She’d grabbed a dress that worked, had known her exact size, and Shaw wondered about the depths of the imprints once again.

More specifically, she wondered about the retainment aspects. Harold was working on another engagement, John wasn’t here yet, and Root was the only person to ask.

“What did you mean,” Shaw started, and Root looked back at her from a few steps ahead, “when you said you left the gun in there last time?”

“It’s always the same van.” Root shrugged like that explained everything. 

She was right, mostly. Shaw always used the same van with Whiskey, but she never noticed Whiskey with a gun. As her handler, that seemed like the kind of thing she should notice. None of the other imprints should’ve even known how to use one, let alone be comfortable handling one. At least not since Shaw arrived.

Root didn’t explain further, and Shaw didn’t pry. They reached the steps of the banquet hall, and Root checked her phone, watching a tracker beep the gunman’s location. He was still here.

Turning to Shaw, Root’s smile glittered. “Ready to roll?”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy New Year's! Also, I just wanted to say how grateful I am for seemingly having generated a following for this story. Thanks for being awesome !


	5. 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Everything’s going to be all right,” Shaw said. It was what she was supposed to say, but the words felt like a betrayal, after everything.

In the crowd within the banquet hall, Root blended like a chameleon. Shaw struggled to stick close to her, opting to keep Root at her side at all possible times. When at one point Root stopped, Shaw stumbled into her, pressing her chest against Root’s back. Root turned demurely, smirking. “Didn’t know you were that type of girl, Shaw.”

Instead of play on the static in her chest, Shaw rolled her eyes. “There’s a lot you don’t know about me.”

Scanning the faces of the crowd, Root murmured, “I look forward to learning a few things, then.”

“After your treatment.” The response is automatic, ingrained in her from John’s semi-training. The trigger word fell still in the air, just as Shaw tried not to notice how good Root looked in her dress.

Root raised an eyebrow. “Definitely before my treatment.” She leaned in close. “I wouldn’t want to miss any second of whatever you have to share.”

Shaw’s face was too close to Root’s face, but she didn’t back down. Not for a second, not for the brief moment she thought Root might kiss her, not at all. She stuck out her jaw, held her ground, and Root brushed her off. The smirk waned from her lips, and then something else drew her attention, something besides Shaw entirely.

She shouldered past the smaller woman with a new, more determined look on her face. Before Shaw could start to follow, her path was blocked by black tie elitists.

Her eyes running across the crowd, she caught a glimpse of Root, shifting through the throng like smoke. A few paces in front of her, was a man. The man. Shaw went after them, only diverting from her path to take a different route to cut them both off. Her hand was moments away from reached for her gun, tucked safely in her thigh holster.

She found Root in the middle of a back hallway in the midst of shooting the gunman in the head. The quiet puff of the silencer was the only sound to mark Root’s deed, even Shaw’s bare feet made no audio as she walked toward Root.

She couldn’t decide if she was angry, turned on, or both. The way Root’s arm spun with flexing muscle, evident when she held the gun just right, almost made up for the fact that she just killed a man. It was what they were after the entire engagement, but Shaw and Root were supposed to be very far away when it happened.

This wasn’t far away. This was participation.

And the thrill skating its way down Shaw’s spine was definitely arousal.

The gunman fell to his knees, a heavy stone falling into the ocean floor’s embrace, and Root watched him, her arm falling as fast as the man. The air rattled with death. A brief moment escaped before Root kneeled, rifling through the man’s pocket for his phone, his gun, and a bank statement.

The fire in Shaw’s gut burned with an unquenchable intensity as she watched, a few feet away. “That’s done.” Root made her way over to Shaw, her bare feet sticking to the floor with each step.

Shaw shook her head, attempting to clear the haze across her eyes. Her mouth dry, her body buzzing, Shaw glanced from the dead man on the floor to Root, and back again.

Root had a curious expression on her face. “What?”

As Shaw took another step forward, she decided there was no way Root wasn’t real. When Shaw killed her first, when she watched someone die at her own hand, it changed her. She’d already been different, ever since she was a kid, but applying her uniquity to the world was something different entirely.

“You can’t explain it,” her father once said, with a faraway look in his eyes, after she’d asked him what it was like to kill someone. “Your mind, it tells you it was for the best. But when you really get down to it, you’ve just ended someone. Calling it a life lets you remove yourself. Someone is dead, gone, erased, and you’re responsible.”

Root was responsible. She couldn’t be, if this was just erased in a few hours. It was impossible.

Maybe that’s why Shaw kissed her.

She told herself over and over, that is Root ( _Whiskey_ ) killing someone wasn’t real, then her sliding her tongue between Root’s lips wasn’t real, either.

Root, she melted at first contact, sinking into Shaw as the gun shattered against the hardwood. The sound was a distant memory, echoing in the back of Shaw’s head as she moved her lips blindly. Root’s hands cradled her cheeks - no, clawed at - and her nails scraped at Shaw’s jaw, pulling her even further.

It didn’t last long.

See, Shaw didn’t kiss people. She fucked them, rarely let them fuck her, and left hours later. Absently, she knew she’d turn her own version of leaving into Root disappearing in a few hours, but Root’s lips were _electric_. When Root urged her backward and into the wall, Shaw let her back shudder against the ornate marble. The vibration shook their world, and Root’s teeth scraped at her bottom lip.

“You taste,” Root whispered against her lips, “just like I thought you would.”

“And how was that?” Everything was distant, an alternate reality.

“Like everything I’ve ever been told I couldn’t have.” She pressed her lips to Shaw’s again, bruising them with pure intensity, and she pushed her tongue into Shaw’s mouth.

Suddenly, it was too much.

John could show up at any moment - hell, anyone could appear from the party any second. Root’s perfume overwhelmed Shaw so quickly, all at once, and Shaw shoved at Root’s upper arms, extrapolating herself from both the woman and the deed. Root caught herself, wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, and revealed swollen lips curved into an easy smile.

“We have to go.” Shaw’s voice could barely be called her own. It was weak.

“Lead the way.” Root held out an arm, always one for the dramatics.

Shaw stepped around the man on the floor, avoided the puddles of blood, and focused on everything besides the tread of Root’s feet behind her. Reese would be here anytime now, Reese will -

All she could think about was the way Root’s hands felt on her, her lips insistently pulling something Shaw couldn’t give.

Root pressed herself against Shaw’s back (when did she stop walking?), her breath hot on the back of Shaw’s neck. “Take me in there, Sameen.” She meant the bathroom, just down the hallway. “Just for tonight. I won’t remember in the morning.”

It was enticing. Shaw being able to not only leave, but disappear completely after whatever this ended up being.

She let Root push her into the bathroom. She let Root’s nails scrape their way up her thighs, tugging the hem of her dress with it. She let Root tear down her underwear, and Shaw stepped out of them.

Root dropped to her knees. She pressed her lips to Shaw’s thigh, the inside of her knee. Shaw fell victim to the sensations, closing her eyes because forgetting was easier if she didn’t watch. Her head bounced against the tile. Lips trailed across her skin, following a direct path to Shaw. Root’s fingers bruised into the hard, muscular flesh of Shaw’s leg, holding them both steady.

When Root’s breath ghosted against her, Shaw’s chest tightened. Root kissed her, tongue delving deeper, and Shaw’s legs were shaking.

She didn’t shake.

She pulled at Root’s hair, urging her faster. “God,” she muttered, avoiding the syllable that felt so right after it. _God-Root_ served merely to remind her of every single rule they were breaking.

Root pushed her leg up, settled it on her own shoulder, and she tasted Shaw, lips curling around her clit, and Shaw clenched her eyes tight. Root hummed, running her tongue through the fold. She teased, was rewarded with a tug at her scalp, and then pushed one, two fingers into Shaw.

Pumping her fingers, Root struggled to stand, sliding her other hand up Shaw’s stomach, brushing her breast and tempting, hard nipples, before settling at her neck. Her lips were messy when she finally kissed Shaw, lips matching the rhythm of her hand.

Shaw’s hands slipped to Root’s throat, clenching her fingers around it. Root surged through her, a circuit breaking and shattering the entire block. Her forehead shone darkness against her, her breath on Shaw’s lips pulled Shaw back.

“I want to remember this.” Root’s breathing punctuated her words, haggard and fast.

Her fingers curled inside of Shaw, Shaw’s hips left the wall, pressing further and entirely into Root, and a gasp tore its way through Shaw’s throat.

“I want to remember how you sound.” Root used her thigh to push harder, deeper, faster, and Shaw teetered on the edge of infinity as Root fucked her. “And how you feel.”

Shaw came quietly, embarrassingly in Root’s embrace, as the taller woman held her up against the wall. She muffled her own breathing in Root’s neck, tasting Root’s sweat against her lips and tongue. She bit the flesh she found there, felt Root’s laugh deep inside herself, and she tumbled through her orgasm as Root held her.

“I don’t think I will.” When Shaw pulled back to look at Root, her brows knitting in confusion, Root added, “Remember, I mean.”

Good, Shaw thought.

Her phone rang, Shaw scrambled to answer, and she pushed Root away for the second time that night. “Shaw.” Her voice, a bit shaky, steadied by the end of her name.

“It’s John. I’m at the van. Where are you?”

“We’re inside,” she explained, keeping an eye on Root as she waltzed over to the mirror and adjusted her hair. “We’ll come to you.”

Shaw hung up. Leaning against the wall, she watched Root tidy herself. She straightened her own dress, ran her own fingers through her hair.

“Your hair is nice like that,” Root commented.

Shaw had the irresistible urge to pull her locks back up into a ponytail. They had to go, and Root, she was still smirking at Shaw.

“Everything’s going to be all right,” Shaw said. It was what she was supposed to say, but the words felt like a betrayal, after everything.

Root’s expression morphed from casual amusement into pain, before she adjusted it. “Now that you’re here.” It didn’t sound like it was supposed to, more like Root’s favorite toy had just been taken away.

Maybe it had.

 

.

 

John drove them back. Shaw sat in the passenger seat while Root sat somewhere in the back. No one said a word.

When they got back to 23 Flower Street, John disappeared like usual, and Shaw escorted Root back to Harold’s office. She never stayed for this part, but she had to see it for herself. She had to watch Root’s erasure.

Root stared at her from the moment she sat in the chair to when she started to seize, eyes rolling into the back of her head.

It’s not Root, but Whiskey who opens her eyes, blinking at Harold wearily. “Did I fall asleep?”

“For a little while.”

“Should I go now?”

Harold glanced toward Shaw, an odd moment of hesitation, then nodded. “If you like.”

Whiskey didn’t spare Shaw a second glance, aside from giving her a small smile before exiting. Shaw quashes the slight amount of pity in her chest, merely standing at the edge of room, taking deep breaths. Weariness tugged at her bones; she looked forward to going home and going to bed.

“You did very well. Tonight.” Harold’s voice was unexpected, hitting her as she turned to leave. She faced him, saw he wasn’t even looking at her, and shrugged. He continued, “Not many would have been able to handle the circumstances, but you were completely by the book. Ms. Groves knew what she was doing, and it was wise to let her handle things.”

Shaw stared at him, watching him turn. “Her name is Root.”

His expression turns curious. “I suppose. But she isn’t real, is she?” He judged her carefully, waiting for her reaction. When Shaw’s face remained a slate of granite, he diverted his eyes. “I believe Greer wanted to see you.”

“Thanks.” She got out of there as fast as she could.

She went to Greer’s office and told him everything. He listened quietly, nodding every few moments, and she left out the part about his Active fucking her in the banquet restroom, but everything else was fair game. When she told him about Root’s crime, he met her eyes.

“Thank you for informing me. That will be all.”

She headed down the stairs, finding the Dollhouse eerie in its emptiness. All the Dolls were asleep. She slipped into a hallway and stood waiting for the elevator, her hands crossed behind her back.

One of the guards rushed her, just as the elevator doors opened. “Ms. Shaw!”

She stopped, waiting.

“Can I speak to you a moment?” He struggled to catch his breath.

She gave up all hope of catching the elevator and let the doors close. “Sure.”

“Handlers and Actives are supposed to have some kind of, like, bond, right?”

She nodded.

“Well,” he started, a flush rushing to his cheeks, “we can’t get Whiskey to sleep. We were hoping you were still here, and that maybe you could come in and - I don’t know - tell her to go night-night or something.” He shrugged like she was supposed to understand, like they were both burdened with kids being kids, but Shaw turned incredulous.

After tonight, though, she wasn’t inclined to say no. She swallowed, memories thick in her throat, and agreed.

The guard led her to the sleeping hall, to the various rooms with pods like graves in the floor. All of them are covered with a translucent glass except one. A few other nurses and guards stand off to the side, watching Whiskey sit on the edge of her pod, swinging her legs back and forth.

Shaw waved them all away, ignoring the electricity of Whiskey’s gaze. “It’s okay. I’ll get her to sleep.”

Soon enough, they were alone. Shaw sat down to Whiskey, feeling entirely awkward. When she was a teenager, she never babysat siblings, or neighbors, and whatever this was felt a lot like the things she missed out on. She couldn’t get Root out of her mind, not missing the way a strand of hair curled across Whiskey’s cheek. But this was Whiskey, not Root. Eyes too childlike and innocent.

Shaw sighed. “Aren’t you tired?”

“I’m awake.” Whiskey’s voice was far too serious.

“I can see that.” Shaw’s monotone crests, basted in sarcasm. “Can I help you at all? Tomorrow you’ll have to, y’know, swim and paint and do other stuff. Right now, you need to sleep.”

Whiskey pressed her lips into a tight line, regarding the pod with the utmost concentration. She slipped into it, lowering herself. Admittedly, it wasn’t the most-comfortable looking of beds, but Whiskey fit into the space like a puzzle piece. Like it was made for her. Shaw stood, but a hand pulled at her ankle, stopping her.

“What?” Annoyance flared.

“Can you stay?”

Shaw shook her head. She couldn’t. But she couldn’t ignore the pleading gaze in someone so empty. Goddamnit. She followed after Whiskey in one swift movement before she could talk herself out of it.

On the other hand, the pod was not made for two people. It’s too small for the both of them, but it worked. Whiskey’s eyes were wide in the darkness, sparkling not unlike Root’s did earlier, the street lights aligned in her irises. Whiskey reached forward, tracing the curves of Shaw’s face.

“I try to be my best.” Whiskey’s voice was soft in the darkness.

“You’re doing very well,” Shaw told her. The words settled in her stomach like food poisoning.

One moment, Whiskey looked at her, and the next, she turned in the pod, pressing her back into Shaw and pushing her hair into Shaw’s face. She molds against Shaw, curling her back. Reluctantly, and for lack of a better place to put her hand, Shaw put it on Whiskey’s waist. After a while of tortured comforting, Whiskey’s breathing evened out. Listening to Whiskey sleep was surprisingly peaceful.

Eventually, Shaw slipped away. The trace of Root’s perfume stalked her the entire way home.


	6. 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the car on the way to the hotel, Shaw let Whiskey hold her hand. It couldn’t hurt.

Sometimes, Shaw really missed Cole.

The hurt was most noticeable when she paid for one cup of coffee and not two, or when she reflected on Harold’s voice echoing through her head, and not the old, familiar sound of a partner lost. The ache didn’t settle in her chest as it did with most people, rather spurred her forward. Without Cole, she wasn’t lost, she was reborn. 

Harold said, “He has an interesting flare.” Shaw scoffed into her burrito. The engagement was going well, but the guy with Whiskey was weird. 

From long hours spent with Harold in her ear, Shaw had gotten used to Harold’s roundabout manner of speaking. He was indirect, even in the privacy of their long, almost unbearable conversations.

“How long is this supposed to last?” Lettuce fell from Shaw’s lips as she talked, tumbling between the seats. “Shit.” She stared after it, mourning for a brief moment, before shoving her hand as far as she could, just barely skimming the slimy piece on the floor of the van.

Inside the restaurant, Whiskey laughed. The two had a window seat. Her smiled reached her eyes, and her heartbeat sped up on the monitor.

“As soon as they’re done with lunch, I assume,” Harold told her, oblivious to Shaw’s predicament. “He has her again tomorrow, so she’ll be keeping the imprint overnight.”

Shaw wiped at her mouth. “So, do I just drop her off tonight, pick her up again in the morning?”

“A motel will do just fine.”

“A what?”

“The Dollhouse will cover any expense spent, Ms. Shaw. I apologize for the grievous inconvenience.”

Despite her surprise, Shaw smirked. “Is that sarcasm, Finch?”

“I do believe it’s your influence,” he remarked. Shaw shrugged even though he couldn’t see her.

She didn’t know what to make of the mention of a hotel. She supposed Whiskey’s imprint wasn’t exactly the most annoying she’d dealt with, but that didn’t mean she wanted to spend the night with her. She looked out the window, just in time to catch the two lovebirds leaning in for a kiss outside the restaurant. The moment was a car crash; Shaw couldn’t look away.

Whiskey’s heartbeat went wild. After the kiss, she tucked hair behind her ear and broke away. She knocked on the passenger side window when she reached the van, and Shaw grudgingly unlocked the door. 

She stopped thinking of Whiskey as separate from her identities long ago. It was better, and she avoided getting attached. As she climbed into the passenger seat, she was just Whiskey.

“He’s taking me out again tomorrow,” Whiskey said. She fluffed her hair in the mirror. “I don’t know what we’re doing yet, but I’m excited.”

“Sounds great,” Shaw said. Her voice sounded far away, even to herself.

Shaw drove them back lazily, one hand slung across the steering wheel and another, resting on the median. When Whiskey grabbed it, weaving her fingers between Shaw’s, it took everything Shaw had not to pull away. She brushed it off as professionalism. 

The contact only served to remind her of a different time, a different woman. A moment stolen in a public bathroom and a moment she couldn’t take back.

Small things. Ever since that moment with Root, parts of Whiskey had settled closer to Shaw. Gotten more comfortable with her. Shaw hadn’t seen Root again since then, and she only hoped Root didn’t remember. It would make it easier for her to forget. 

When she’d asked Harold about Root, he said, “Her skills fit only very specific circumstances,” and something about how he said it resembled pride. 

Pride for what? Ruining a perfectly good human being?

Shaw labeled it as transference. Some part of her knew that she should probably tell Harold about the closeness, but she was sure he already knew. He looked at them when he figured Shaw wasn’t paying attention, and he probably didn’t miss the way Shaw let Whiskey hold her hand during imprints.

In the car on the way to the hotel, Shaw let Whiskey hold her hand. It couldn’t hurt.

 

.

 

Night in the hotel was awkward. 

Shaw seethed annoyance for three reasons: the clark at the desk asked if they were sisters (Whiskey had laughed too loud, grabbed Shaw’s hand, and told the clerk they were the very best of friends), the bed was lumpy, and the shower was too dirty to use. So much for the Dollhouse paying for anything nice.

Whiskey spent the entire night humming to herself, picking out her clothes for the next day. It never occured to Shaw that the imprints didn’t just wear out, that they went on forever. 

Despite not having many options, Whiskey made a spectacle out of choosing her clothing for the next day. Shaw leaned back and flipped through the shitty hotel channels before settling on the news. Whiskey stood in front of the foggy mirror holding clothes in front of herself for almost ten minutes, alternating between three shirts. Through it all, she hummed the same, annoying song.

Shaw would rather be watching Whiskey in the tabula rasa, painting, than watching this trainwreck. 

“Ugh,” she muttered, just as Whiskey picked up another shirt to look at, “why did you have to make this one so… stupid.”

Harold was listening, of course. “Stupid? Jeanette was the top of her class.”

“It’s not winning if there aren’t more than five players, Finch.” Shaw rubbed at the bridge of her nose. “If she was the top of her class, why does she care so much about this guy?”

“Let’s see,” Harold started. She heard the telltale signs that he was flipping through a file. “He requested a virgin…”

“Disgusting.”

“Or at least someone who thinks she’s a virgin,” Harold amended. “Who also thinks she’s his highschool sweetheart.”

“That’s a bit contradictory,” Shaw said, watching Whiskey out of the corner of her eye. “If they’re supposed to be sweethearts, who’s going to believe they waited until now?”

Harold hummed quietly. They played this game a lot, guessing at the motivations of the clients. Most of them were terribly simple, but others, like Root, were crafted with an obvious care, evident to even Shaw. “It says here she was forced to move away, and they’ve only just reunited.”

“Maybe he wants to relive his first time with her.” Shaw shook her head, pointedly not staring when Whiskey stripped out of her shirt before slipping into the bathroom. “These are just perfect, made to order fantasies.”

“I’m going to bed, Ms. Shaw,” Harold said instead of arguing with her. In the bathroom, the shower turned on. The thought of the dirty tile made Shaw sick. “I trust you’ll be able to handle yourself for the night?”

“Yeah.” Shaw flipped the television off, walking over to her own bag to rummage through it, finding her sleeping clothes. She pulled out a pair of shorts and a tank, quickly changing into them. “She’s just in the shower, and we’re heading to bed after that. I’ll catch you in the morning.”

“Goodnight, Sameen.”

Somehow, Harold Finch had turned into Shaw’s closest friend. She spent all of her time talking to him, and while she would consider Whiskey a friend, she didn’t want to think too much about what that implicated. “Night, Finch,” she said before pulling out her earpiece and setting it on the bedside table. 

The springs of the bed dug into her back no matter what way she lie, so she waited in the darkness for Whiskey to finish her shower, pretending to be asleep as the other woman crept into the other bed.

Hours later, Shaw was still wide awake and ready for action. The uncomfortable bed, she supposed, had its advantages; by keeping her awake, she was ready for anything. Whiskey snored away mere feet over, and Shaw could hardly focus on anything other than her soft breathing. The hard spring mattress underneath her was just enough to remind her that life was real and it was weird.

That she was living in it.

She must’ve drifted off eventually, because the next thing she became aware of was the bed shifting and the smell of Whiskey surrounding her. Whiskey -- no, Jeanette -- crawled up next to her, and as Shaw fully woke up, she stiffened.

“Oh, you’re awake,” Whiskey noticed. Her hand rested flat on Shaw’s stomach. “I couldn’t sleep.”

The lie dug at Shaw just like the uncomfortable bed springs, and she remembered how Whiskey was asleep only an hour ago. Shaw had listened to her heavy and slow breathing.

“Is this okay?” Shaw wasn’t sure if Whiskey was asking about the cuddling or the being in bed together. Either way, Shaw was inclined to say no.

“Not really,” Shaw said. She didn’t move for fear of jostling Whiskey’s hand, or ruining the perfect balance they somehow created on the shitty bed.

Whiskey didn’t move, either. “I don’t know what it is, but there’s something about you that draws me in. Kind of like you’re irresistible.”

God, fuck Harold. Shaw turned all her anger toward him, for not doing a good enough job. This wasn’t Root talking (Root would be direct - Root would tell Shaw to fuck her in this dirty and lumpy motel bed, and Shaw would oblige), but it wasn’t Whiskey, either. Whiskey didn’t know words like “irresistible”, but Shaw would bet money that she knew what it felt like. 

Jeanette wasn’t supposed to feel this way. It was Harold’s fault, had to be, and she’d tell him about it in the morning.

“Please,” Shaw said, “go back to your own bed.”

Whiskey listened to her this time, extracting herself from Shaw and climbing onto the other bed. The instant Whiskey’s weight disappeared from the bed, Shaw relaxed, spending the next thirty minutes listening to her own breathing until Whiskey fell asleep.

 

.

 

Two weeks later, Shaw was faced with Special Agent Whiskey, who held her hips high and saunters instead of walked. She had a perpetual smirk glued to her face. Shaw, personally, didn’t mind the added personality quirks. Harold probably had nothing better to do that create these people in his head and then watch them come to life.

Reese, on the other hand, stared at the dolls in the facility very hard and didn’t pretend that he didn’t care. He forced himself into every engagement, making sure things went to par, and Shaw found herself wondering why he was still head of security, and how he could do it, if he cared that much.

“All of these people,” he said to her, one day when they’re sitting down in the handler’s quarters and eating lunch. “They all come in here voluntarily. They offer up years of their life, only to lose something that might’ve last a day.”

“So, that’s how it works, then?” Shaw’s mouth was full of a sandwich with ham, turkey, and more ham.

Reese got a far away look in his eyes. He nodded, focusing on her. “They all have something they want to forget. In return, they offer themselves for five, ten, fifteen years. But I’ve,” he stopped, staring at his food, “I’ve never seen anyone get released.”

Shaw remembered that conversation, and looking at Special Agent Whiskey, she wondered just how many years Whiskey had been under the care of the Dollhouse.

Whiskey led Shaw down a hallway, trained specially in tactical observation. Shaw trusted her right now, her gun tight in her own hand. More often that not, Whiskey’s imprints were more than perfect; they were human.

“Right this way,” Whiskey urged, moving surprisingly well for someone in slacks and a blazer. Shaw opted for her usual black jeans and long-sleeve black tee, tactical and practical for moments like this. Whiskey held her gun seemingly perfect, and Shaw could tell it was different than the carefree way the gun rested in Root’s hand. 

Shaw’s own gun felt too big, all of a sudden. “Lead the way.”

“You’re quite skilled,” Harold said in Shaw’s ear. He sounded genuinely surprised, like he hadn’t watched her for the last few months, hadn’t seen what she could do. Part of her was offended, following Whiskey diligently, so she didn’t respond.

Whiskey pressed her back against the wall before turning the corner, and Shaw ran mission statistics through her head. This job was keeping her on her toes, what with the constant flood of information she had to remember for each engagement. Whiskey’s safety was priority, and if Shaw’s guard fell even once, she could lose her.

Whiskey caught her eye and gave her a smile before stepping around the corner and getting shot.

“Ms. Shaw, was that -”

Shaw shot at an enemy she couldn’t see, hovering over Whiskey’s body. The hallway wasn’t very wide. The linoleum puddled with blood. Exactly three rounds later, Harold’s words drowned out by the blast of every gunshot, she finally hit home. With a grunt, the shooter fell to the floor.

On her knees and pressing her hands into a bloodsoaked wound, Shaw breathed in through her nose and out through her mouth.

The air was thick with iron (blood, blood, blood).

“Finch - get a bus to my location. Whiskey’s been shot.”

“Right away.” Harold’s voice was shaken. 

Shaw, she lifted Whiskey in her arms, just as Whiskey murmured through bloodstained teeth, “Why’d you call me that,” followed by a grunt of pain when Shaw readjusted her grip.

“Nevermind,” Shaw said. Whiskey was heavier than she looked, goddamnit. “Hold your hand on that. We’ve got to get you out of here.”

Whiskey did as she was told, and Shaw retraced their steps, grateful she didn’t have to put Whiskey down and fight their way out, guns blazing. Outside, she heard the sirens of the ambulance get closer and closer, and she walked faster, through the compound grounds and toward the main road. She jostled her wounded passenger with each step.

She flagged down the vehicle when it came, carrying Whiskey into the back of it and ignoring how Whiskey’s eyes closed, how her breathing shallowed out.

The paramedics rose a brow at the gunshot wound, but Shaw’s glare prevented them from commenting. When one of them finally manage to drag her attention from the wound seeping blood from Whiskey’s abdomen, they asked for Whiskey’s name.

It took Shaw a solid ten seconds to remember Whiskey’s cover. “Uh,” she said, closing her eyes. “Madison. Special Agent Madison Kennedy.”

“The protocol,” Harold said later (it felt just like normal, Shaw listening to Harold’s voice, except she was sitting in a hospital waiting room and everything was falling apart), “is to extract her from the hospital once she can be moved, under the pretense that she’ll be transferring to a private care facility.”

“And then Dr. Saunders will take over when she’s back at the Dollhouse,” Shaw finished. “Is he even qualified for something like this?” Shaw eyed the trashcan, her breakfast threatening to come back up at any moment.

Back when she worked for the ISA, she never ate right before a mission. This morning, with Madison Kennedy in tow, Shaw let her choose the breakfast joint. Shaw had only gotten a pancake, but every last bite of it was coming back to her, the exact taste of the syrup, and the way the chocolate chips felt in her mouth. She wanted to throw it all up, thinking about Whiskey.

“Of course he’s qualified,” Harold said. “Dr. Saunders is one of the best surgeons in Los Angeles.”

Shaw turned her earpiece off. She could do without him, right now.

Hours later, with Whiskey fast asleep, an extraction team showed up dressed in medical uniforms. John was at the head, looking official in a suit with a badge that looked real to Shaw. Shaw’s nausea backed off with the arrival of a familiar face. Rossum Hospice Care was not a real private medical center, but it must’ve checked out.

Shaw, once they leave the hospital, didn’t leave Whiskey’s side.

During the trip back, Whiskey jolted awake, eyes wide, and Shaw’s hand drifted immediately to her wrist, right above the crude-looking restraints digging into her hand. She found Whiskey’s eyes.

“It hurts -”

“Everything is going to be okay,” Shaw said, and she really hoped it would.

Whiskey’s eyes never tested her like that. The reply was always instant, calming, but Shaw felt as though Whiskey wanted to trust her, but couldn’t. It was worrying, but Shaw squeezed her wrist and Whiskey relaxed.

Whiskey settled back onto the gurney. “Now that you’re here.”

A medic gave her a sedative, and Whiskey fell asleep.

“Has she ever done that before?” 

Shaw looked up sharply to find John, seated in the corner, gazing at them both. Although his expression was impassive, Shaw could tell he was taking everything in, that he saw every moment of her and Whiskey’s exchange. “No,” she lied. “What did you see?”

“I saw a Doll doubt her Handler,” he said.

“She’s in pain,” Shaw said, but something about the way he was staring at her told her that she might’ve just fucked up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> APOLOGIES. For the length between updates. I'm updating from work. Love it. But, I've had some family matters that took precendent over this, but I should be (kind of) back on schedule. Thanks for reading (and putting up with me!).


	7. 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Something inside of Shaw broke. Maybe it was the way Greer called Whiskey _hers _.__

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OKAY! I just wanted to give a shoutout to you guys, you awesome readers, because I seem to have attained a nice, amazing, spectacular readership and with this fic, that means SO MUCH. Too much to even describe. Your comments on here and on tumblr, they mean the absolute world to me. And another huge shoutout to my beta, SpicyCheese, who jumped up and offered to beta (and has saved my bacon plenty a time). SO THANKS. A LOT. :)

Dr. Saunders was an old man who didn’t talk much. He was meticulous and thorough, cataloguing a list of Whiskey’s wounds. Wiped and in the tabula rasa, Whiskey sat on the exam table comfortably. Shaw watched with the vigilant gaze of someone used to screw ups. Even if she did leave in the middle of her residency, she remembered all, if not most, of what she learned. At the edge of the room, she crossed her arms.

She didn’t hold Whiskey’s hand. Cameras in every corner took away that luxury the moment they stepped into the Dollhouse. She’d rather be caught dead than be caught on the monitors with Whiskey’s hand in her own -- especially after what John saw in the ambulance. 

“Shaw.” John’s voice drew her eyes away -- she’d been running her eyes over the cuts and scrapes adorning Whiskey’s face, noticing how she’d be unable to work for a few weeks. John stood in the doorway, half in and half out. Tearing herself away from the pall of Whiskey’s cheeks, she walked toward him. “Greer wants to see you.”

They walked through the gallery together, and Shaw noticed the emptiness, unusual from the usual hustle of the daytime. The eerie quiet sunk into her bones, and as they climbed the stairs, something in the air told her she was walking toward the chopping block. Maybe it was the way John kept a few paces behind her, making sure she didn’t run.

When they reached Greer’s office, John stopped outside of the door. She entered alone. Like usual, Greer had the bottle of whiskey in his hand. He poured a second glass. 

“Ms. Shaw,” he said. She sat opposite of him on the leather couch. “I do believe we have a delicate matter to discuss.”

Shaw swallowed. Reese had said something.

“Mr. Reese has recommended Whiskey for cancellation,” Greer said. He watched her carefully, judging her carefully neutral expression, “and I would like your input.”

Inside of Shaw, it was as if Greer had struck the proverbial match, lighting her aflame. She remained expressionless, however, and asked, “Are you allowed to do that? That’s… that’s killing someone.”

“I’m sure you must’ve noticed by now that we can do whatever we want.”

A wave of déja vu washed over her. “This is because of me,” she said. It wasn’t a question. The guilt twisted itself into a tiny ball in the pit of her stomach. “Don’t do this because of me.”

She wasn’t pleading, not yet. Greer took a long sip of his drink. The wrinkles wrapped across his throat twinged like wires being pulled taut. “We’re concerned about the closeness the two of you seem to have developed. Your Active depends on you too much.”

Something inside of her broke. Maybe it was the way he called Whiskey  _ hers _ .  There was a time when Cole was Shaw’s. Her responsibility, her partner, her friend. Look what happened to him. Whiskey was Shaw’s responsibility, at the very least, and now that was going to be her downfall. For trusting too much. For, for -- Shaw resolved to save Whiskey’s life.

“Isn’t that what you wanted?” she asked. There was an edge to her voice that hadn’t been there before. Her voice, cut through the tension in the room like a well-sharpened dagger. She thought she saw Greer’s eyes widen. She said, “You wanted a bond. We went through a stupid ceremony thing to get it.”

He ignored her. “I agree with Mr. Reese’s recommendation. It’s not you, Ms. Shaw. Believe me, you are one of our top handlers.”

“I’ll leave.” The words flew out of her mouth before she even had a moment to think about them. Greer’s raised eyebrow was telling -- he was thinking about it. “I mean,” she continued, “I’ll take leave. If it’s not me, then just give her to someone else and let her detach. I’m sure she’ll be fine with the adjustment. Just don’t ki--cancel her.” Shaw’s palm flattened on her leg. She hadn’t realized she’d been holding a fist. “I’ll come back in a month or two, and you can decide whether to put me back with her, or give me someone else.” She added, “If I’m so good.”

He considered it, chewing on her words like a piece of ice from his glass of whiskey. “Very well,” he said. “Consider this a last chance.”

Shaw knew it was more than that. Greer tapped his knuckles on the edge of the table after setting down his drink, and Shaw waited for a dismissal. She needed something that told her this was final, this was it. That Whiskey would still be here when she came back. 

(She didn’t think about the very real possibility that she wouldn’t come back).

“I’ve some new ideas for her new handler already,” Greer said finally, and Shaw stood. 

“I guess I’ll be on my way, then.”

“Make sure you talk to Harold.” The words were the dismissal she’d been waiting for.

But Shaw had a different idea of where she was going first. 

 

.

 

On the stairs, as she headed for Dr. Saunders’ office, Harold intercepted her. There was only one person she wanted to see right then, and it happened not to be him. “I’m leaving,” she told him, and it felt less final coming out of her own lips. It felt flaccid, fluttery, and fallible as she let go of it. She brushed Harold’s hand from her arm, trudging forward.

“You can’t,” he said. Fatigue leaked into his voice like a bad pipe, telling her everything she needed to know. Harold had needed her. She couldn’t imagine how many agents he’d seen come and go.

It occurred to her that maybe the many hours they’d spent talking hadn’t just been protocol. Harold had gotten to know her as a friend, and she’d gotten to know him as one, too. She felt nothing but sluggish as she thought about leaving. There was so much she needed to do. She knew he had plenty of other engagements to be monitoring, but he had always chosen hers. Whiskey’s.

Speaking of. “It’s for the best,” Shaw said. She didn’t want to be brusque, but she came off that way. Harold’s gaze darkened.

Shaw had never been nice. She had never been easy to talk to, or someone to confide in. But over the past few weeks, spending time with Harold, she’d gotten used to joking around again. She’d gotten soft. She realized, as she stood there on the staircase with Harold blocking her way to the one person she really needed to see the most, that she needed this time off more than she knew.

The small amount of fight left in Harold’s gaze disappeared. His shoulders fell, and the bit of humanity within him told him to back off. “I understand,” he said. He didn’t. Not really. Shaw could tell -- could tell that he hadn’t left this place since he started.

Maybe that was another reason she needed to leave.

“We’ll wait until she wakes up to break the bond,” he continued. Shaw didn’t need him to explain which ‘she’ he was talking about.

“I’ll go see if Dr. Saunders knows when that’ll be.” Shaw brushed past him, closing her eyes as she padded down the remaining steps. 

She wandered around downstairs, looking for any sign of John, or Martine, or someone who would turn on her. She took in the spa-like environment for what it truly was. The place was beautiful, with vaulted ceilings, wood flooring, and plants decorating every corner. The entrance to Dr. Saunders’ clinic was no different; a sliding door welcomed whoever came in.

Closed currently, Shaw slid the door open to slip inside. Whiskey was where she left her, and Dr. Saunders sat in a desk in the corner. He barely looked up when Shaw walked in, expecting her, and returned to his work a second later. Whiskey was asleep, peaceful, but the bloodied gauze laced across her stomach was angry -- red, twisted, and unkempt. Shaw knew it had been a struggle to keep the bleeding stopped.

Shaw could hardly look at it. She’d never had a difficult time looking at blood or gore -- she was one of the few in her medical class who didn’t faint the first time they cut into a cadaver -- but on Whiskey, the wounds looked too real. Too lethal. 

Shaw reminded herself that Whiskey was alive. Breathing. “Did she wake up while I was gone?” Shaw asked Dr. Saunders, keeping her voice low.

He tilted his head, and his glasses slipped down the bridge of his nose. “Not at all.” 

Whiskey’s expression settled peacefully in her sleep. Her face, soft in the light, was almost childlike. She looked like every one of her imprints and none of them, all at once. She was just Whiskey. (Shaw, she didn’t know how that was possible, when Whiskey didn’t exist). 

“Do you believe they’re real?” She directed her question toward Dr. Saunders, looking toward him.

He looked up, a line creasing in his forehead at being disturbed from his reading. “I don’t,” he said simply. “Maybe once, they were, but now they are simply hollow shells, waiting for one of Harold’s creations to fill them up.” He returned to his reading, and Shaw returned her eyes to the fall of Whiskey’s lashes, which curved across her cheek. He added, a moment later, “It’s why I never became a psychologist. I fix bodies, not heads.”

But he joined the Dollhouse for a reason, Shaw thought mildly. She was sorry she even asked.

She joined the Dollhouse, too, months ago, for her own reasoning. She’d leave for the same reason, she thought, staring at Whiskey’s relaxed expression. Being alone was a feeling most people were okay with, Shaw especially, and she was sure she’d been okay when she disappeared for a few weeks on her own. She did if after leaving the ISA, and she’d do it again now.

Shaw ‘s itch to leave grew even stronger. “Wake her up,” she commanded, standing. The breath she let out was heavy, hard to release. When Dr. Saunders gaze her a quizzical look, she only stared back. This, she was good at. Being emotionless -- she’d done it her entire life.

Dr. Saunders followed her order seamlessly, and when Whiskey finally blinked awake, she saw Shaw first. She smiled. Shaw’s chest ached. Saying goodbye was suddenly ten times harder. She felt as though she would never see Whiskey again. She would have to live with that.

Whiskey tried to hold her hand, after Shaw helped her up. They walked toward Harold’s observatory, and she reached for Shaw, who shoved her own fingers into her pocket and averted her eyes away from Whiskey’s pout.

Whiskey, she winced as she struggled into Harold’s chair. She was still very much in a bad way, surely hurting all over, but Shaw needed to get this over with. Harold helped Whiskey lean back, with gentle hands on her shoulders. Whiskey’s eyes fluttered closed as she felt the pain ride through her, but when she opened them again, finding Shaw’s gaze as she stood on the edge of the room, her expression featured pain and understanding. 

“There are a few alterations I need to make in the other room,” Harold said quietly. “I’ll only be a moment.

He left them alone. Shaw was at a loss. She couldn’t leave, not when Whiskey needed her this much. She needed Whiskey, whatever she was, but if she stayed, Whiskey would be cancelled. Shaw stood off to the side, stiff, with her hands clenched into fists at her side. 

“You’re short,” Whiskey said after a while. 

Shaw half laughed. “So you’ve told me.”

“And… sad.” Whiskey’s brow furrowed, and Shaw wondered what exactly could be marring perfect skin like that. What complex thought could be creating the expression Shaw hadn’t seen before, not even in the permutations Harold managed to create almost weekly. Not even on Root, who looked sad enough to kill a man. Who did kill a man. 

Shaw took a few steps toward the chair, but still wasn’t close enough to reach out and touch Whiskey. “I don’t do sad.” There was no reason for her to indulge this conversation. She did it anyway.

She sighed when Whiskey stared at her. “I’m leaving.” It was useless to lie to Whiskey, and omission seemed just as worse. “That’s what this is.”

Whiskey’s brow furrowed even deeper, and Shaw fought the urge to brush her thumb over the space between her eyes, to smooth out the skin there. “But I… I thought I did my best.” Whiskey’s voice was quiet. Broken. 

Shaw looked away. She wanted to dematerialize right then and there. She wished she never took this stupid job, that someone else had ended up with Whiskey, that she never fucking fell for someone who doesn’t exist. Shaw looked over her shoulder at Harold in the other room, crouched in front of a computer, and then she looked at Whiskey, who now had tears in her eyes.

In love. Ridiculous.

Shaw took another step closer. Immediately, Whiskey grabbed her hand, hard enough that Shaw knew she wasn’t going to let go anytime soon. 

“Was I not my best?” Whiskey insisted. On anyone else, it would’ve sounded so pathetic that Shaw would’ve rolled her eyes and dismissed them entirely. But this was Whiskey.

Shaw swallowed the lump in her throat. “You were perfect,” she said, and the smile Whiskey gaze her in response, full teeth and wide enough to reach her eyes, was worth it.

“Good,” Harold coughed. “You’re ready to begin.”

Shaw shifted her stance; Whiskey’s grip tightened. Harold took position behind Whiskey’s head. “So, we’ll begin by repeating the words again, but this time I’m imprinting her so she’ll forget what you mean to her.”

_ What you mean to her.  _ Whiskey didn’t even glance at Harold, but Shaw saw the words sink into her skin. Whiskey stopped fighting. Her eyes lost their fire, her grip loosened, and Shaw almost forgot Harold was there at all. Whiskey gave up, right in front of Shaw, and Shaw never knew how desperately she’d wanted Whiskey to fight until she stopped.

“Your cue,” Harold prompted. Shaw remembered the first time she did this. A script in her hand. Whiskey’s curious gaze.

“Everything’s going to be all right,” Shaw lied.

Harold messed with a few of the settings on his side, and Whiskey shivered as if a blanket of cold just washed over her. Whiskey didn’t say anything back.

“Good,” Harold said. “That’s good. Onto the next one.”

“Do you trust me?” Shaw asked, and Whiskey’s eyes refocused on Shaw’s own.

“With my life,” she answered right away.

Harold shook his head, rolled a dial. “Try that one again.”

Shaw leant forward of her own accord. “Do you trust me?” Her voice was lower, softer, and she silently pleaded with Whiskey to fight.

A shadow settled over Whiskey’s expression, and for a moment, she looked like Root, reminiscent of Root’s old smirk and her dark features. Whiskey nodded her head, but said, “I don’t know.”

Then, she took her hand back, severing whatever connection Shaw thought they had. 

“That should do it,” Harold said. This last part was the part Shaw hated the most. Naked electricity so close to someone’s head was unnatural, but this time, Shaw forced herself to watch the halo-like device surrounding Whiskey’s temples. It was the last time she’d be standing there for a long time -- she might as well get an eyeful. Whiskey let the waves of electricity wash over her. She forgot the bond with Shaw as easily as pressing a button.

Shaw thanked Harold, shook his head, and turned in her identification. Martine caught her gaze in the break room, raising a brow, but said nothing. Shaw thought she noticed her smirk when she believed Shaw to be looking elsewhere. When Shaw walked out into Los Angeles streets on her own, she felt empty. She felt scooped out. Ripped apart.

She would go back someday. Someday, but not today. 

 


	8. 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shaw disappeared, and that was enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Read those tags up there again, folks. Pave way for the Carter/Shaw.

The bar was dark, not advertising anything it couldn’t offer. The counters, they were covered in peanut dust, despite the early hour. It was empty, save for Shaw, her elbows settled on the counter, and her head down. She wore black jeans, a black hoodie, and her hair was tied at the base of her neck. A few strands of black fell into her face, and just then, she reached up and tucked them back into place behind her ear.

Shaw drank. And drank. And ordered another. The bartender kept them coming; Shaw didn’t need to say a word. The alcohol burned in her throat, but she kept at it. It took her a while to feel the buzz in her veins. She was alone, and she was drinking, and the bartender paid her no attention. He would get tipped later.

The buzz was just enough to make her focus on the important things, like the crusted peanut shells inches away from her arm, or the drone of traffic just outside the door. The alcohol was what she needed, so she didn’t think about anything other than the moment she was in. 

When someone else walked in, shedding light on the pathetic contents of a trademark New York City dive bar, Shaw didn’t look up. The person sat heavily in the chair next to her, and ordered a drink of their own.

Shaw, pleasantly buzzed, picked at a stain on the counter with her fingernail. 

“You look like hell,” the newcomer said. Finally, Shaw looked up, meeting the gaze of someone she used to know.

Joss Carter belonged to Shaw’s past, but seeing her here, now, Shaw took a long moment to reacquaint herself. She might just be as Shaw remembered her, but her hair was different, longer, and pulled neatly back. Her smirk, judging yet easygoing, was the same. But back when Shaw knew her, Carter sported a uniform that she had traded in for a blazer, well-fitted slacks, and a buttoned shirt.

“I only just got here,” Shaw said. “Give a girl a break.”

When Carter got her drink, they settled into the comfortable silence that had been trademark of their relationship. Once upon a time. Eventually, Shaw felt Carter’s gaze slipping down her throat, to the dip of her tank top. Just like old times. “Still in fighting shape,” Carter noticed.

“Have to be.”

“Of course,” Carter said. Exhale. “Where’d you go, Shaw?”

In elementary school (hell, even middle school), the other kids called Sameen Shaw crazy. She carried out their dares like no other because she wasn’t afraid like the other kids. When it really came down it, however, her peers’ cheering wasn’t really cheering at all. They jeered at her, made fun of her, and Shaw took it. She was better than anyone, anyway. Her intense, preteen mood swings were just enough to alienate her fellow classmates. When her father died, they forgot she existed altogether.

Right then, Shaw felt like a kid again. The entire story sat on the tip of her tongue; she wanted to tell Carter everything. She wasn’t a little kid anymore. She took a long drink, cleared her throat, and started talking.

Carter, she raised her eyebrows when Shaw described the technology behind it (she tried the best she could, but even Shaw didn’t understand it). She told Carter about Root, about letting Root fuck her against a bathroom wall, about how it all went to hell. 

“She’s a goddamn poison,” Shaw muttered. “But I need to know what happened. If she’s safe.” She laughed. “If someone told me a a few months ago that I’d be in this position, I’d have shot them.”

Carter considered her for a long moment. “You could always pretend to be a, uh, client and order her,” she suggested. “If that’s how that works.”

Shaw’s laugh was hollow, filling the silence of the bar. She drained the rest of her drink. When the bartender asked her, yet again, if she wanted another, she shook her head. She was fuzzy around the edges, both from the drink and the added company.

“They’d smell me a mile away,” Shaw said. She’d actually thought about that, just to see if Whiskey was okay. “I don’t do relationships, Carter. And this… this is fucked up.”

Maybe she needed more alcohol. Just thinking the word  _ relationship  _ made her want to throw up. 

“You don’t need to tell me that you’re afraid of commitment,” Carter pointed out, and Shaw bit her lip. “You care for her. There’s nothing wrong with wanting her to be okay.” Carter’s words hit home. “And I’ll admit,” she continued, “all of this shit sounds like it’s out of some weird, sci-fi movie. If I didn’t know you better, I would’ve left the conversation hours ago.”

Shaw looked up at the clock on the all. It had been hours. She felt drained, desolate. “I appreciate it.”

“You got a place to stay tonight?”

It was Shaw’s first night in New York City since leaving it for Los Angeles. Her first priority had been finding a good, dark bar and settling in for a drink. She’d pushed worrying about amenities to later. She hadn’t thought about. She could check into a hotel, but for old time’s sake, she accepted the invitation when Carter extended it. Besides, Carter’s son was a decent kid. She’d met worse.

They split a taxi. Carter talked and made New York City sound both glamorous and dark, just liked Shaw had remembered it. There’d been an upturn in murders, and that’s why Carter was promoted. Shaw listened to her talk, remembered their history, and tried not to notice it when the lights fell on her lips. The city glittered just outside the window, and right as they pull up to Carter’s flat, a warm hand settled on Shaw’s thigh. 

“Taylor’s staying with his dad tonight,” Carter said.

Shaw let Carter press her against the wall just outside of the door, lips locked together. It felt good to be kissing someone again. Carter kissed just like Shaw remembered, urgent and soft. Carter felt like she could slip through Shaw’s fingers -- Shaw might let her. Carter’s pressed shirt was almost silk under Shaw’s fingertips, and she pulled it out of Carter’s belt, tugging at the buttons. 

Her thumb brushed the brass of Carter’s badge. “You’re staying safe, right?” Shaw glittered in transparency, but her concern was overwhelming, all of a sudden.

“Shaw,” Carter said. She put Shaw’s hand on her breast. “I didn’t bring you home for the third degree.”

The smile took over Shaw’s expression before her gaze darkened. “What did you bring me home for, Detective?”

“Your stimulating” - Carter kissed Shaw - “personality.”

They stumbled through Carter’s front door, slammed it shut with the press of their bodies, and almost fell as they moved through the apartment in darkness. Shaw’s hands were all over Carter’s body; her kiss grew hotter by the second. Carter kissed back like she threw a punch -- hard, to the point. She left little to the imagination. Shaw let Carter squeeze her between the door and her chest.

Their history, although rocky, involved a lot of this. Shaw remembered how Carter felt, even though the last time they’d touched had been years ago. Their history was fucking, drinking, and silence. 

Carter’s hands grew cold, as they slipped underneath Shaw’s shirt and pressed flat against her stomach. Shaw stalled her touch, pushing them toward the bedroom once again. It was the bedroom she remembered, at least. Halfway down the hallway, Carter’s lips left Shaw’s with a sound resembling a suction cup releasing -- she grabbed the hem of Shaw’s shirt and tugged.

Shaw pushed Carter against the opposite wall, fingers quick on the buttons of her shirt. The blazer and shirt both fell from Carter’s shoulders; Shaw made quick work of the newly exposed skin.

Against her lips, Shaw felt the hum that vibrated through Carter’s chest and neck. She grazed Carter’s thrumming pulse with her teeth.

As Carter finally pushed Shaw onto the bed, her breath unexpectedly fled. She propped herself on her elbows, watching Carter slip out of her slacks to reveal a toned physique, black underwear, and thighs that could kill a man. Anticipation overwhelmed Shaw; she struggled to undo her own jeans and slide them down her thighs, just as Carter pulled the ends of them hard and off. 

Carter, she settled between Shaw’s legs like Shaw was her favorite mattress, like the inside of Shaw’s thighs were home. Her hair tickled the skin there, her lips burned everything in their wake, and Shaw twisted underneath Carter’s touch like she hadn’t in a long time. Carter knew just how she liked it; two fingers and a tongue expertly placed was almost all it took to push Shaw further and further. 

Shaw lost herself in the feeling of Carter’s touch. She forgot about it all, only focusing on the soft feeling of Carter’s fingertips, her own skin brushing against Shaw’s legs. Shaw disappeared, and that was enough. Her eyes clenched shut, her teeth drew the blood of her own bottom lip, and she blindly reached for Carter’s head, weaving her hands into Carter’s hair.

All of it added up to Shaw falling apart. Carter’s tongue pushing into her, Carter’s fingers pumping through her, and Carter’s freehand leaving bruises on her hip. Shaw fell like an angel right out of heaven, hips arched and body poised.

Messy kisses scattered across Shaw’s stomach as Carter climbed up her body. Her tongue fell on Shaw’s nipple, teeth tugging at the hardened flesh as an afterthought. 

Shaw bent a leg, twisted, and suddenly, she was hovering over Carter after a carefully executed move. She kissed Carter blind, and Shaw forgot, just for a moment, all the shit she left behind in Los Angeles. Shaw slipped a hand between them both, pushing a thigh against Carter. A groan curled into Shaw’s mouth as she pushed two fingers into Carter. “Have you thought about me a lot,” Shaw wondered, her voice quiet, rough, and dangerous. Her breath pounded against Carter’s neck.

Carter nodded. Her fingers pulled at Shaw’s back like a climber scrabbling for purchase before she found it, nails plowing a field of blood. Shaw pushed her fingers slowly. She lived for this, being in control, holding Carter just moments away from bliss. She lived for the power.

“I fucking hate you,” Carter said, because she knew what Shaw was like. She knew, and when Shaw picked up her speed, she knew not to get her hopes up.

“Tell me more,” Shaw growled. She bit into the flesh of Carter’s shoulder, the urge overwhelming. Carter moaned, and Shaw pushed a third finger into her. Soon, they became a writhing mess of limbs, sweat, and sex. Shaw ground against her, fucking her faster and harder, and Carter pulled at the hair on the base of Shaw’s skull.

Carter said  _ fuck me _ and Shaw thought she was. 

Carter said  _ Jesus  _ and came as she bit into Shaw’s lip. 

Shaw flopped into the space next to her, her hard breathing dominated the sound in the room. Shaw, she stared at the ceiling and traced the textured lines with her eyes. Now that she was without distraction, everything she left behind came rushing into focus.

“You’re wandering,” Carter murmured. She pushed herself up onto her elbow. She traced lines and shapes over Shaw’s stomach, ribs, and breasts. The cool air, Carter’s touch, all of it pulled unwelcome goosebumps into existence. Shaw stretched a muscular arm above her head, burying the hand behind her hair. 

“There’s too much in my head,” Shaw said quietly. She turned to look at Carter.

“Anytime you need someone,” Carter said. “I can’t always guarantee that I’ll be here for a night, but I’m always up for drinks.”

“Thanks.”

A finger paused on Shaw’s sternum. “I’m always here to help, Shaw.”

“I don’t deserve that,” Shaw argued, but it was a tired argument, the kind she’d had with herself for years now.

It’s like Carter knew. “You deserve more than you know.” She leaned in and pressed her lips to Shaw’s. Before they knew it, the kiss that had started off soft grew into something stronger, more desperate. On Shaw’s end, she was desperate to sink into something unknown.

Shaw didn’t leave until the early hours of the morning. She took a moment to appreciate the sunrise tipping over the horizon. Shaw watched the city wake up from Carter’s window. She glanced back at the woman in the bed, hair splayed every which direction and tangled in a mess of sheets. Shaw picked up all she could: the picture frame of Carter and her son they’d knocked down in their haste, a lamp. She replaced the items quietly, carefully, and slipped back into her clothes. She left a note.

Then, she made sure the front door hardly made a click as she closed it. 

 


	9. 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He slashed a woman's face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> YIKES. Sorry for the wait. Things happened.

After Shaw left, John Reese reinstalled protocol into the back of his head. He did everything right, not because he wanted to, but because he needed to. For the sake of the Actives, and for the sake of his livelihood. Admittedly, John Reese had thought he had a friend in Shaw before she left, but it was apparent she had been keeping a lot of secrets from him. He didn’t blame her for it, but as someone in his position, he couldn’t accept it, either.

Shaw, as it turned out, wasn’t the only one who had been keeping secrets from him. There was something Greer wasn’t telling him, and John needed to know. But he went on with his duties as usual, and he focused on doing his duties right.

That was, until his two best agents lost his two best Actives.

John stood in the corner watching the entire tirade from a distance, while Greer hovered. Harold worked the controls frantically, adjusting which screen said what. John, despite the situation, was surprisingly calm. He prided himself on this. 

“I can’t get a signal,” Harold admitted, exasperated. He glanced at John helplessly, but found only John’s blank, controlled expression.

Greer leant over the communications, pressing the button. “Am I to believe the two of you have lost both the Actives  _ and  _ the client?” His voice was steady. Only his dramatic release of the intercom button, which John saw, revealed his true frustration.

“Yes, Mr. Greer,” Snow answered. Meek, resolute, and hopeless.

Mark Snow had been promoted when Shaw left. He was John’s choice, when Greer asked him who should take over Whiskey’s handling. Snow had a background in intelligence, like Shaw, but he was quieter, more prone to listening than taking things into his own hands. He was just what Whiskey needed.

“Snow’s girl is a bad influence on my guy,” Martine said. The normal amount of venom leaked into her voice, the same amount that was present when she’d sneered at the choice of engagement in the first place. She added unhelpfully, “I don’t know why we insisted on pairing them.”

Greer stiffened, almost imperceptibly, but John, he was trained to notice the small stuff. He knew Greer had chosen the pairing himself, based on the strong chemistry between Whiskey and Alpha. He had high hopes for Greer’s choice, but those hopes were dwindling in a matter of minutes.

“There is no ‘we’ in this situation, Martine.” Greer took a second to press his lips together, creating a tight line. “It is not your concern which Active is selected for what engagement. Your only task is to observe, and intervene when necessary.”

He took a breath. “And might I add, this time, it was necessary.”

“We were, sir,” Martine explained. Everyone in the room, it seemed, leant in to get a better listen. John, too, found himself pushing off the wall and strolling toward the desk. Harold stilled in his desperate attempt at locating the two. Martine sighed. “It looks like Alpha knew he was being followed.”

Harold broke in, “I made it quite clear that both of the imprints were prone to paranoia. I flagged it in the paperwork I forwarded.”

John took action, then, because it was as if, suddenly, he was needed. “How potentially lethal would you say these imprints are?” His gun was heavy on his hip, a constant reminder of what he was getting paid for. He was ready to use it, after an almost too long time without.

Harold looked up at him, the gratitude clear in his eyes, and said, “Very.”

Not missing a beat, John began to command the room. “Round all free agents up. We need to get a go on their location.”

In minutes, John had the people in Harold’s office scrambling to find a computer, abusing all of the phones, and he stood in the middle of it all, attempting to recall anything he could remember about Alpha.

They spent almost two hours just scanning the streets after Harold hacked into the traffic camera database. The pictures were old, but soon enough, they found a highway photo that pictured two of their best in the front seat. As John squinted to see the photo better, his stomach twisted. The client was in the back seat, restrained, and Alpha, driving, was smiling.

Once they had the license plate, they found the car. Abandoned off the interstate, outside the warehouse district. 

“You two,” John said, pointing at Martine and Mark. “You’re coming with.”

The two handlers looked up from their position at the edge of the room, a place they resigned themselves to after Greer snapped at them. Martine was quicker to the draw, lighting up as she stood. Mark looked more cautious. “Where are we going?”

John told them. The car ride was less than enthusiastic, and John found himself getting lost in his thoughts. He remembered the time Whiskey didn’t listen to Shaw, and wondered if they’d find themselves in the position where they had a murderous imprint that didn’t behave. He didn’t want to shoot her. He would if he had to.

They found the car outside of an abandoned factory, left alone with the driver seat door open. All three of them lead the team, guns out. It was verging on late afternoon, the sun was high and hot in the sky, but John wore his suit well. He was calm, with not a drop of sweat on him.

The factory was white and rusted, unsturdy. They skirted around the main building quietly, carefully, and soon, they found a door. No one wanted to open it. John stepped forward, gun up, and pulled the large, metal door toward him. Light from the outside flooded in, revealing the scene. Whiskey and Alpha were grabbing at each other’s clothes, didn’t even notice the team moving in, and then Alpha went for a knife.

“He’s got a weapon,” John said immediately. He poised himself to fire.

“Wait,” Martine argued. She, too, watched as Alpha moved to use the knife on the client, who was exhausted, tied up, and already bloody. Alpha cut a deep gash into the client’s chest; a client who was too tired to scream. He might’ve been unconscious. From across the room, John couldn’t tell. 

John took lead. “Put the weapon down.” Both heads whipped toward John, and Whiskey scrambled to move her clothes back into decency. 

Mark stepped in front of John. He didn’t have a gun out. His hands were up. “Whiskey,” he said, his voice soothing and like medicine, “would you like your treatment?”

Whiskey’s head lolled to the side, and John was terrified for a moment that she might not react to the trigger. Then, she nodded. “That’d be nice.” Her voice was thick with an old, southern drawl.

Martine followed suit, asking Alpha if he’d like a treatment. 

Alpha gazed at the blood dripping from the knife. When he dropped it, it clattered loud and unseeming on the ground. “A treatment sounds good.”

The situation was resolved easily. The brief panic John had felt dissolved. Martine and Mark grabbed ahold of their respective Dolls and headed out, shooing them into a van that was on its way back to the Dollhouse.

In his compromised state, the client signed a confidentiality agreement. They would give him medical care in exchange for his silence. John felt nothing as he shoved the piece of paper into bloody hands, as he watched the client’s hand shake as he grasped at the pen. Next to his signature were drops of blood. John folded the agreement and tucked it into the pocket of his suit. 

 

.

 

John heard the screams all the way from the break room. He sat at the table, his hand curled around a disposable coffee cup, and was enjoying the silence when he heard them. He tensed, waited, and listened. The screams were multiple, loud and scared. He threw the cup into the trash. It splashed against the plastic bag. 

In the hallway, the screams were louder. They were getting more high pitched, more frantic. John pulled his gun out. This was easy for him. He could dive into situations head first, regardless of the depth. He was good at it.

As he came to pass the sleeping quarters for the dolls, he found the rooms empty. It was late, the dolls should’ve been asleep. He moved further down the hallway, toward the source of the chaos.

When he entered the galley, the scene that greeted him struck down to a deep nerve. It was obvious that he had stepped into the aftermath of the destruction. Mark Snow lie on the ground, face down. John didn’t even have to put a finger to his pulse to know that he was dead. Through the doors of the clinic, John saw a still, white-jacket clad body slumped against the table. Martine Rousseau nursed a cut to the shoulder. The blood trickled between her fingers.

As John went toward her, Martine looked up. “About time you showed up.”

“What happened?”

People were still running. John thought of Harold, then, and instinctively looked up at the glass overlooking the room. Martine ran a bloody hand through her hair, leaving streaks of crimson stained in the blonde. “He didn’t like Whiskey’s art project.”

“He?”

Somehow, John knew it was Alpha before Martine said his name. She spit it, staring at her bloodied skin, disgusted. 

“Whiskey got it pretty good,” she added. “Someone’s taking her to the hospital… Our doctor’s out.” She gestured her head toward the clinic. John had been right.

John went for Harold next, easily scaling the steps. He burst into the office, breathing hard, and called out. “Harold?”

“Oh, John,” Harold said, his voice muffled. When John entered the room with the imprint chair, he found Harold extracting himself from a cupboard.  “Thank goodness.”

“Are you hurt?” John assessed him briefly. He glanced out at the galley, peering through the windows, and sighed. “We’ve lost some good people. Didn’t want to lose you, too.”

“I appreciate it,” Harold said dryly. 

“He didn’t get close, did he?”

“He did come in here,” Harold revealed, “but I was in the cupboard. I heard him…” He looked around at the room, seeming to only just realize the floor was covered in imprint drives, boxes has been upturned; it was a mess. “Oh, dear.”

John moved his footing, not realizing that he’d been stepping on a drive. He looked up, his face somber. “Dr. Saunders is dead.”

Harold looked unaffected by the news, then enlightened. He went to a drawer labeled “staff” and dug out a few untouched drives. “The last time I took Dr. Saunders’ imprint was… two months ago. I’m sure we could find a replacement easily enough.”

“Finch,” John said. “People are dead.”

“I’m trying not to think about that.” Harold continued sifting through the drives. He looked up at John. “Do you have any idea who could replace him?”

John wanted to tell him that Whiskey was alive, but that wasn’t what came out. Instead, he said, “I’m going to leave.”

Harold frowned. “What?”

“I can’t do this anymore. It’s against… everything I’ve worked for. I’m going to leave.”

Harold looked at him for a long time. Then, he looked at the drives. “We don’t have an imprint of you.” He meant it to say that John would be missed, irreplaceable, but John only took it as a sign that he needed to go. 

 

.

 

At two in the morning, John walked down a dimlit hallway of an apartment building in New York. It hadn’t been that hard to find, not with his old CIA contacts. The weight of his gun was a reminder of everything he’d just left, but he continued regardless. Seeing Whiskey was the last straw. He had to go.

He knocked on the apartment door. It took several minutes before there was shuffling behind it, but John waited. He rested his hands in his pockets. 

“John?” The voice was thick with sleep. The door opened, revealing an irritated and tired-looking Shaw. John was sure he didn’t look much better.

“You were asleep.” John looked her up and down. He hadn’t expected Shaw to follow the normal hours of the day. Maybe it’s just him. “I should go.”

“You’re already here,” she grumbled. She stepped to the side and stretched her arm out. “Welcome to this place.”

He held her gaze before nodding, brushing past her to enter the apartment. It was as sparse as her apartment in Los Angeles; John could tell that Shaw hadn’t been here for more than a few weeks. He went straight to the counter, sitting on the outside of the kitchen. He rested his elbows on the inexpensive faux-granite and immediately felt the fatigue tear at every muscle in his body.

Shaw poured him a glass of the battery acid she had sitting by her sink. It went down okay. 

“What are you doing here, Reese?”

John’s fist tightened around the neck of the bottle. “I left the Dollhouse,” he said.

“Oh,” she said. Her brows rose almost imperceptibly, indicating her surprise.

“It’s a long story.”

“Well,” Shaw shrugged. “You didn’t show up at two AM for nothing.”

So, John told her about Whiskey and Alpha running away. About the mini-heart attack at the Dollhouse. Shaw snorted into her beer when she listened to Greer’s reaction. “Sounds like he lost his shit.”

“You’d be correct,” John agreed. “That was a few weeks ago. Whiskey and Alpha were… popular together.”

Shaw raised her eyebrows.

“We found them in an abandoned factory. The client was close to dead. He really got what he asked for.” John shook head head, sloshing his drink around in the bottle.

“Which was?”

“Cross country killing spree,” John said. “Or, at least, the illusion of it. Harold tried to explain the mechanics of making a Doll think it was a killer to me, but it was over my head.”

“I don’t even remember what Alpha looks like,” Shaw admitted. 

John understood that. He knew most of the handlers didn’t spend time with other dolls beside their own. “Alpha’s imprint - that is, his real self - was a man who attempted murder,” John told her. “Which is why I’m here.”

“You’re saying that a Doll used to be a murderer?” Shaw sounded disgusted.

“Attempted murder.” John shrugged. “He slashed a woman’s face.”

“That doesn’t make it better.” Shaw sighed, shaking her head. She remembered what John said earlier, about him being here about not just Alpha, but Whiskey, too. “Wait, you said this wasn’t just about him.”

“Harold messed up.” John leant back on his stool. “The treatment. He must’ve not left him blank enough, or something. One minute, they were all sitting, cutting up those trees, and the next…”

Shaw connected the dots. She got up in a flash, aiming for her coat, haphazardly thrown onto the arm of a chair.

“Shaw,” John called. “Shaw, they’re across the country. There’s nothing you can do for her that can’t wait until tomorrow.”

Shaw stopped in the shadows of the entryway. She stared at the line of light underneath the door. She struggled to catch her breath. She’d been asking herself, all this time she’d been not working, if her feelings for Whiskey had waned. They obviously hadn’t. She was ready to take the next plane to Los Angeles; she was ready to put a bullet in Alpha’s skull. 

By the bar, John was a large silhouette. “Is she dead?” Her voice was small.  _ He slashed a woman’s face. _

“No,” he said. “But maybe the cards she was dealt are worse.”

 

.

 

John waited in the car as Shaw went into the precinct. He flipped through the radio. In two hours, they would be on a plane to Los Angeles. He didn’t think about what it meant to go back. He knew he never wanted to step foot in the Dollhouse again, but he also knew that Shaw would barrel through the doors no matter what. Nothing could stop her.

Shaw eventually emerged into the street, followed by a pretty woman in slacks and a blazer. They both got into the backseat. “John, this is Carter. Carter, John.”

“Good to meet you,” Carter said.

“Likewise.”

“Carter looked someone up for us,” Shaw prompted. She nodded at the woman, who then lifted a pile of papers up.

“Yeah, Jeremy Lambert. The victim’s name is right here, address, too.”

John met Shaw’s gaze. Shaw said, “I’m getting Whiskey out of there. You’re getting Lambert.”

“It’s a deal.”

“Hold up,” Carter interrupted. “ ‘Getting’? Why are you getting and why am I not involved?”

“You’ve got a son,” Shaw reminded her. At the mention of Taylor Carter, Joss looked up at John sharply with the gaze of a mother who’d kill if anyone touched her child. Shaw shrugged. “We can’t endanger you.”

“And Taylor’s got a dad,” Carter snapped. “I’ll be in Los Angeles in two days. Keep me updated.” Carter got out of the car and stalked back to the precinct. 

“What a woman,” John said.

“A pain in my ass,” Shaw said, but she agreed. “Come on, we’ve got a plane to catch.”

  
  



	10. 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She wasn't Whiskey anymore.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello!!! Happy April.

The man introduced himself as Zachary. He stopped Shaw just inside the doors of 23 Flower Street. He had an earpiece in his ear, a gun on his hip, and a wide stance. Shaw clocked him easily; ex-military, paid by the hour, and wary. “You don’t have an appointment,” he said, like that meant anything.

She’d be damned if this CIA wannabe stopped her from getting to Whiskey. “I don’t need one,” she growled back. 

It became evident that Zachary was John’s replacement as he stiffened. He listened to whatever voice was talking in his ear, and then glared at her. He beckoned for her to follow and lead her deeper into the Dollhouse. He pretended like she didn’t know the way in. Shaw ran her eyes across the same walls and ceilings, for what felt like the hundredth time.

She pretended, just for a moment, that she was a client with money to spend. Even briefly, the thought made her sick. 

They take a different route to Greer’s office, avoiding the main galley. Zachary didn’t say a word as they stopped outside the door, merely held up his arm toward it. Greer’s voice called from inside, a subtle  _ come in _ . Shaw sent a last glare toward Zachary, who took a position outside the door with his arms behind him, and shoved her way inside. Zachary didn’t follow her.

As Shaw stepped through the threshold, Zachary reached for her arm. He nodded toward her hip. “Gun.” Her own weapon, tucked neatly at the small of her back, suddenly seemed heavier. Zachary held out his hand and waited.

Shaw rolled her eyes and relieved herself of her only safety. She watched her Nano vanish into Zachary’s coat, before entering Greer’s office alone. Her hands clenched into fists as she walked toward him. “Ms. Shaw,” he said, nodding toward her. His voice was the same as it was when she left.

It was all too much like the first time. Greer sat in the same place, the sofa settled in the middle of the room, and he had what looked like the same drink in his hand. This time, he didn’t offer her a drink, but only gestured toward the couch opposite him. She sat on the edge of her seat, ready. She didn’t know what she was waiting for.

Greer took a long drink. “It must’ve been Mr. Reese who told you,” he said, breaking the uncomfortable silence.

She didn’t move.

“No matter.” Greer shrugged. The movement was odd on his thin, old shoulders. He looked too frail, seconds from breaking. “John has been replaced, anyway.”

“He looks like a good investment,” Shaw said finally. “But so did John.”

“Zachary comes highly recommended.” Greer continued as if Shaw hadn’t spoken. “He may not be familiar with how things are run around here, but he catches on quite quickly. Like you did.”

Shaw folded one hand over the other. She wanted him to get to the point, but she bit her tongue, forcing herself to keep her mouth shut. 

“You must want to know where she is.” 

“Actually,” Shaw said and stopped. She lied easily, but it twisted in her chest. She wanted to know where Whiskey was, but she hid it well. “I wanted my old job back. Maybe not the same one, but you get the point.”

This was the plan. Lie her way back in, get eyes on Whiskey, and figure out what to do next. 

“Not the same one,” Greer echoed. “Good, because Whiskey is no longer available for treatment.”

Hearing Greer say it, Shaw’s hand flexed involuntarily. Greer noticed, grinned, and tipped back his glass. 

“Good,” Shaw said. “I’ll go wherever you’ll have me.”

 

.

 

Shaw ended up nowhere near Whiskey. Shaw spent her first week back in Los Angeles getting a new apartment for herself, as well as setting up a place for headquarters. John and Carter were going to operate in the dark while Shaw stood in the limelight, taking the fall for anything fishy. 

Getting her new apartment mainly involved going back to her old one and convincing the landlord to let her rent again. He grumbled at her, but even he couldn’t argue that she was a perfect tenant. She was never loud, never had complaints, and barely spent her time in the apartment to begin with.  By the end of her haggling, she got the keys to a bigger apartment than the last one, but still no belongings to keep in it. 

When she left a few months ago, she sold it all. What she didn’t sell, she gave away.

The Handler-Active imprint was ten times easier with Shaw’s new Doll than it had been with Whiskey.

Seeing Harold again, Shaw noticed the dark circles behind his glasses, but also a second human occupying his space. The boy was energetic, bouncing on his heels when he wasn’t moving and running when he was. Shaw eyed him warily when she first stepped into Harold’s office again, but Harold waved her away. 

“This is Caleb Phipps,” he explained, flippant as ever. “My new assistant.”

“Assistant?” Shaw raised an eyebrow. 

“I insisted,” Harold said. He fingered his keyboard and Shaw stood off to one side, content to let him do his work. Caleb worked in the other room, sifting through the imprints. It was almost just as Shaw left it. “You’re here for the Handler-Active imprint?”

Shaw nodded. “I’m not even sure what Doll they gave me.”

Harold hit a few keys, too quickly for Shaw to catch what they were. “You’ve got… Charlie. He’s new. Clients are still getting used to him.” Harold took a moment and caught her eye. “Maybe it’s not the right choice to send you out so soon.”

“No take-backs,” Shaw joked, just as Zachary showed up, tailed by a dazed looking man. Shaw recognized the faded look in his eyes instantly; he must’ve been Charlie. 

“Shaw, Charlie. Charlie, Shaw.” Zachary handled Charlie roughly, shoving him toward her in the imprint room. Shaw looked to see if anyone saw, and when she caught Caleb’s eye, he looked away quickly.

Charlie looked at Harold with wide eyes. “Is it time for my treatment?”

“Yes!” Caleb chirped, jumping forward to guide Charlie toward the chair. His enthusiasm would’ve been contagious, had Zachary been absent. Charlie settled into the chair Shaw knew so well. She wasn’t looking forward to this again; the hand-holding and the words that weren’t real. 

“I don’t need the script,” Shaw said, when Caleb attempted to hand her the familiar piece of paper. 

Harold looked up from the other side of the room. “Yes, I shouldn’t think so.”

There was no electricity when she grabbed Charlie’s hand. When they pulled the catch and release of the scripted words, Shaw felt nothing. She thought only of the time she did this with Whiskey, as she stared into Charlie’s amber eyes.  _ You’re short _ , Whiskey had said. Charlie said nothing to her, only running his eyes across her face.

Charlie thanked Harold for his treatment once it was over, and Zachary stepped forward to gather him up.

When they were gone, Shaw relaxed a bit, leaning against the wall. “How do you like the new guy?” She directed her question at Harold, but Caleb looked up from his kiosk.

Harold met her gaze, too. “I much preferred Mr. Reese.”

 

.

 

Shaw began to feel John’s absence in more than just Zachary’s presence.

On her first engagement with Charlie, Shaw didn’t have the constant communication with Harold. Instead, it was Zachary in her ear, commenting on her technique and her practices, rather than the client himself. She found herself missing Harold’s company. Zachary became a staple during Shaw’s engagements, and she wondered if that was another aspect that changed when John left.

Without John, Martine hadn’t changed in the slighest. “Does he monitor all of them?” Shaw asked her later, after shift, just as they were both leaving.

She still didn’t like Martine. And Martine was still cold, even more so that Shaw was back. 

But when Martine talked to Shaw, she was surprisingly soft. “Not mine,” she said. “Harold and that idiot of an assistant constantly chatter in my ear.” Martine turned to leave, but she stopped, adding, “You’re lucky you’ve got Zachary. Seems like good company.”

Shaw watched her go.

When Shaw didn’t see Whiskey for almost another month, she resigned herself to her work. She dedicated her time to her engagements, and focused on being fully alert. For Charlie’s sake. 

Except for the fact that Charlie wasn’t Whiskey.

On Shaw’s third engagement, Shaw was finally out of the van. Charlie was the long-lost son of a reclusive millionaire, and they were out hunting. Zachary suggested to Shaw, when she was sitting alone in a van on the side of the road, that she go out into the forest in the middle of the night. 

Rather, the early hours of the morning.

“It’s always darkest before the fucking dawn,” Shaw muttered, hoping that her communications link didn’t pick it up as she placed a soft footstep in the underbrush. 

The woods were creepy, cold, and silent. Shaw hugged her coat around her shoulders and reflexively folded her hand around the handle of her gun. The coolness of the metal kept her grounded, because, honestly, she couldn’t see shit. She’d rather have Harold in her ear right then; at least it would give her someone to talk to.

“Where are they?” Shaw whispered.

“Two heat signatures picked up about five-hundred feet north of you,” Zachary said.

“And I’m just supposed to assume that’s them?” Shaw rolled her eyes in the darkness. She didn’t even know what she was doing out there, when they’re supposed to be hunting. She could get  _ shot. _

Zachary hummed a song Shaw didn’t recognize. “Tracker puts Charlie… five-hundred feet north of you. It’s them.”

“Whatever,” she grumbled. This time, she didn’t hide her unamusement. Zachary chuckled on the other end. She could just picture him, sitting in Harold’s office on the other end of the room, while Harold slept somewhere. Zachary was comfy, maybe even warm, and she was freezing her ass out in the middle of fucking nowhere. Shaw didn’t think she could dislike him more, but the hatred grew inside her like ivy.

She trekked north, sticking to the shadows. Her eyes had adjusted to the darkness by now, and she was able to navigate the ground pretty well. Once, she fell into a small ravine and made a lot of noise, but she lied in it for five very long, very cold minutes until she knew she was in the clear.

“What am I even doing out here?” She asked finally. Her ankle twitched from the fall and from the cold.

“Just in case something should happen.”

“His heart monitor’s been steady all night,” Shaw argued. “I would think that -”

“Fifty feet north, Shaw.”

Shaw stopped instantly. She stood as still as she could, taking in the darkness as if it were her own shadow. Her eyes strained to see anything. There were most likely in a blind, anyway, hidden in cover. Way back when, that was how she hunted with her dad.

Shaw took one step, two - 

A shot rang through the night and piercing pain tore through her. Shaw fell into a tree, stifling her groan through gritted teeth. “Fuck,” she breathed. “Engagement terminated?” she asked, feeling the heat of her own blood sinking down her arm. Just a graze.

“No,” Zachary said. “I’ll send someone out for you. It’s almost morning. Stay put until Martine gets there.”

“What about -  _ shit  _ \- Charlie?” Shaw braved a look around the tree, but even as the morning light grew lighter, she couldn’t see a thing.

“He’ll be fine. His heart rate went up when he shot you, but they both think they missed.”

Shaw sunk to the ground. She held her hand over the wound. “My favorite fucking jacket, too,” she grumbled. She looked toward the sky and began the long wait for Martine.

When it was almost eight and Shaw’s vision was getting blurry, she snapped, “I’m sure Martine is going as fast as she can.”

Shaw tried to stand, but when she took a few steps, her head swam. She stumbled into a tree, grasping for it. “You’re not equipped with a tracker,” Zachary reminded her. “Just so you know, Harold’s shift is coming soon. I’ll brief him.”

“I appreciate the concern,” she said dryly. She managed a few steps before slumping against another tree. She was out of shape if she had to stop this much. She walked and walked, until another voice sounded in her ear.

“Ms. Shaw? Are you all right?”

“Finch.” Her teeth ground together, hard. “You have no idea how much I prefer your voice over…”

“Likewise,” Harold agreed. “On another matter, how are you doing?”

“I’m walking. Toward where I think I came from. By the time Martine shows up I’ll be back at the van.” Shaw thought she was heading south. “I’ll definitely need stitches.”

“As long as you can shoot straight.”

“Always.” Shaw cracked her neck toward the left.

“Actually,” Harold started, “Martine just arrived at the van. She’s heading toward Charlie’s last known location.” Already, with Harold’s voice assisting her, Shaw’s head had cleared considerably. Maintaining sarcasm and losing blood took a lot out of her. 

She decided to wait again. Martine may not have been her favorite handler (none of them, admittedly, were), but at least Shaw knew she was efficient.

It was almost nine when Harold spoke again. “Are you still awake, Ms. Shaw?”

“I’m here.” Shaw coughed. Harold’s voice had drawn her away from drifting completely. Her arm had stopped bleeding. She ran her eyes over the dried blood, the tear in her skin. She sighed. “I’m going to have a nasty scar.”

Harold was quiet for a long moment. “We have a very good doctor,” he said at last.

Shaw’s throat tightened when she thought about going to the Dollhouse instead of a hospital, but it figured. Just then, she heard the brush breaking in the distance, and she angled her head toward the sound. She was well hidden, if it wasn’t Martine, but she saw  a mess of blonde hair standing out amongst the leaves and trees.

“Saunders was killed, right?” she asked Harold. “That’s what John told me.”

“You would be correct.” Shaw had the inkling that she wasn’t getting the full story. She didn’t have time to ask, because Martine spotted Shaw, frown deepening.

She walked up, standing above Shaw. “I can’t believe you got yourself shot.”

“I do a very good deer impression,” Shaw remarked. She reached for the hand Martine offered her and got to her feet easily. Martine grabbed her too roughly, but Shaw was beyond minding by that point. They walked back to the van in silence. Shaw didn’t admit to herself that she would’ve ended up walking the wrong direction if Martine hadn’t been there. Through the trees, already, Shaw saw the van. She looked at Martine. “What was it like?”

Martine’s brow furrowed. “What was what like?”

“The composite event.” Shaw watched Martine carefully, and she saw the sharp intake of breath rather than heard it. She saw it in the sharp features of Martine’s neck, and when she exhaled, a cloud of warm air came out in a fog.

“How do you know about that?” Martine’s voice stiffened. They reached the van, Martine opened the door for her, and Shaw let herself be shoved into the passenger seat. Everything in the van was as Shaw left it the night before. In the back, Charlie’s heart-rate monitor beeped steadily. When Martine slid into the driver’s seat, she sent a glare toward the back. “Turn that off.”

Shaw climbed across the sheets, gritting her teeth. “John told me about it,” Shaw explained as the engine roared to life. “I came back because I thought the Dollhouse would need some help again.”

Martine scoffed, but said nothing. “Harold,” Shaw whispered, “How’s Charlie doing?”

“Just fine,” Harold said. “Zachary picked him up. They should be getting back when you do.”

Shaw glanced toward the front seat where Martine began to pull onto the road. “Will that work? Will Charlie respond to Zachary?”

“The trigger works for everyone, especially our security manager.”

Shaw wondered if she had imagined the connection between her and Whiskey as she crawled back to the front. The road was smooth, Martine drove with both of her hands on the wheel, and Shaw stared out the window. Almost thirty minutes later, Martine said, “It was a lot,” and it took Shaw several seconds to realize what Martine was talking about.

“What do you mean?”

Martine glanced at her. “He went after me first. Alpha, I mean. But Dr. Saunders was in the way. So were at least two other agents. And then Whiskey…”

Shaw needed to hear what happened. “What happened to her?” She sounded more eager than she meant to. “No one will tell me.”

“You mean you don’t know?” Martine laughed. “I guess you’ll find out soon enough.”

Shaw didn’t say anything more, at the risk of sounding like a child pleading with a parent.

“Anyway,” Martine continued, and Shaw tried to tell herself she didn’t care, but she listened. “He went after me,” Martine said, “the first chance he got. Maybe I was in the way for what he really wanted. He never got it. I subdued him, knocked him out. He’s in the Attic now.” Martine grinned ruefully. “Where imprints go to die.”

For the remainder of the trip, Martine’s words hung in the air. When Shaw stumbled into the Dollhouse and parted ways with Martine, she traced her way back through familiar hallways. Dried blood curled on her fingertips, her hair was dirty and untidy, but she walked right through the galley and toward Dr. Saunders’s old clinic. 

Inside, she spotted a brunette with her back toward Shaw, a lab coat wrapped around thin shoulders. Shaw froze in the doorway; she’d recognize that tall, lanky body anywhere. She’d worked with Whiskey for months. Even with Whiskey’s hair cut shorter, just skirting her shoulders, Shaw knew it was her.

“You must be Shaw,” Whiskey said (except it was  _ not _ Whiskey) and she turned around.

Shaw stared. She couldn’t help it.  _ He slashed her face. _

From the top left of her forehead, the first cut ran to her right eyebrow and continued through it. Two cuts adorned her left cheek, one of them riding her nose like a speed bump and onto the other cheek. Shaw traced the last one with her eyes: a small, but deep cut that ran vertically from her right nostril and across her lips, down to her chin.

“I’m sorry,” Shaw said. “I don’t have the, um, pleasure.”

Shaw averted her eyes from the deep, freshly stitched gashes across Whiskey’s face. A deep, old rage boiled in her chest, something she hadn’t felt since she worked for the ISA. Maybe sending Alpha to the attic wasn’t enough.

“Claire Saunders,” Whiskey answered, and no, she wasn’t Whiskey anymore. She was Claire.


	11. 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "She would be very pretty," Zachary murmured, "if she didn't have the scars and the, uh, non-existent self esteem."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> YIKES. Been a long time. Speaking of, POI TOMORROW! AH!

A million questions popped into Shaw’s head as Claire walked toward her.  _ Did Claire know she was only an imprint? _

“Ouch,” Claire commented, looking over Shaw’s arm. Shaw looked at her scars, and even though she noted Claire’s discomfort being stared at, she couldn’t help it. Claire pulled at Shaw’s jacket, beckoning for her to take it off. “Let’s look at this, shall we?”

She nodded, letting Claire lead her gently to the examination table. Once Shaw was settled, once she had her arm held up to the light, with Claire’s fingers prodding the muscle around the graze gently, Shaw opened her mouth. She closed it again. She didn’t know what to say, or how to say it. And when she did speak, her words were quiet and definitely not what she planned on saying.

She said, “How did it happen?”, referred to the cuts across Claire’s face. Of course, she knew how it happened, but she wanted to see what Claire thought. What Claire had been programmed to think. Claire squinted at her, affronted. Shaw rushed to explain. “It looks recent,” she added. “Sorry.”

Claire dug in too deep as she concluded her examination and Shaw winced, less because of the pain and more because of her ineptitude. “You mean, you don’t know?” Her tone was bitter.

Shaw had spent so long getting to know Whiskey, who was so simple, yet took so long for Shaw to unravel. She had spent such a long time on her, and now Shaw began to think she’d have to spend just as long, even longer, to break open Claire’s shell. A shell she’d obviously crafted piece by piece, careful to maintain a semblance of professionalism. Shaw watched Claire work and decided that professionalism might be all Claire had.

“I actually do,” Shaw said. She bit her lip as Claire pulled at her skin, readying a suture. “I guess,” she continued, “I’d rather hear it from you.”

“You don’t even know me,” Claire snapped.

She’d never been good at talking to people, at dealing with feelings. She wasn’t a listener, but she wanted to try. When she first met Carter, it’d taken both of them getting drunk for either of them to loosen up. Shaw wasn’t the  _ type  _ to talk about her feelings; they were so bottled up, way far back on the shelf, that she’d rather not dig them up.

Shaw sighed, exasperated. “I’d like to,” she said. She grasped at straws, softening her voice. Claire stopped and looked at her. The words suddenly were too personal, and Claire’s wide eyes remind her of Whiskey, despite the deep cuts that run across her face. “I mean,” Shaw tried, “it seems like you hate this place as much as I do. That much is obvious.”

Claire softened and Shaw shrugged. Her lame attempt to lighten the mood seemed to have worked, but Claire continued the rest of her work in silence, leaving Shaw to her thoughts. 

Instead of thinking too hard about the situation she found herself in, Shaw watched Claire work. Everything about her was different than Whiskey. Like Root, Claire was fully-formed, different than the imprints Shaw had babysat for a night or two. The way her hair fell into her face was different, as was the way her nose scrunched up when she squinted. The way she breathed was shallower than Whiskey, who took long, deep breaths. Shaw didn’t mean to stare, but as Claire finished, she met Shaw’s gaze.

“Could you stop?” The malice in her tone was mostly defensive, and Shaw let her gaze wander over the cuts. 

“I wasn’t looking at them,” Shaw said truthfully. “Until now.”

Claire held her gaze, pressing her lips together, and she must make a judgement because she returned to Shaw’s arm. Shaw let her eyes wander the curve of Claire’s neck. Then her arm, and finally her hands, so deft and accurate. Steady. Like Shaw’s had been in medical school and still were. 

Too soon, Claire said, “All done.” When Shaw didn’t move, she added, “You can go now.”

Shaw eyed the container of lollipops on Claire’s desk, remembering how the old Dr. Saunders used to give them out. Whiskey used to walk around with a white stick poking out between her lips after all of her appointments.

“Don’t I get a sucker?” Shaw joked, mostly to lighten the mood.

Claire glanced at the desk like she’d forgotten they existed. She shrugged, reaching for the bowl. She held them toward Shaw. “Take them all, just please go.”

Shaw got the picture. When she neared the door, she stopped and looked back, watching as Claire leaned over a clipboard to write notes. “I’m sorry,” Shaw said. “If I offended you.”

Claire shook her head. “You didn’t. But thank you, anyway.”

The response was tired, and Shaw saw it all at once. The sag in Claire’s shoulders, the bags under her eyes that had been almost unnoticeable behind the scars. Her weak and resolute response made Shaw want to comfort her somehow, but the feeling was uncomfortable in Shaw’s chest; she’d never  _ wanted  _ to comfort someone before.

She nodded her head and left. Harold’s office was the brightest thing in the Dollhouse, and as Shaw followed the fluorescent lights, she watched Harold through the windows. He sat at his desk, staring at the screen, and he looked tired, too. Shaw scaled the stairs and arrived at the closed door. When she started knocking, Caleb opened the door instantly.

“Hello!” Caleb smiled brightly.

“Not interested,” Shaw said, pushing past him. “Get out,” she added.

Harold looked up in mild surprise, but when he saw her, his eyes morphed into recognition. Caleb slipped out the door, closing it behind him, and Shaw waited until she heard the click of the knob sliding into place before she started talking. 

“Why didn’t you tell me?” she spat. With every word, Harold flinched.

He expected this. He averted his gaze and sighed, his shoulders falling. Instead of meeting her gaze, he eyed her bandage. The gears turned in his head as he put two and two together. Shaw shook her head and her hands clasped into fists. She wanted to rage, throw Harold’s tables across the room. Break something. And Harold was just sitting there.

She thought they were friends. Or at least some off, knock-off version.

Harold sighed. “You would’ve gotten distracted.” His voice was reason.

He was right, but Claire dominated her thoughts. “How does it work?” she asked, voice softer. She deflated, sitting down next to his desk. “Is she the same… as Dr. Saunders?”

Relaxing, Harold folded his hands. “Mostly,” he answered. “The imprint just needed a few tweaks.”

It was too easy for him. Images flashed through Shaw’s mind. Harold spending late nights at his computer, finding the perfect quirk. Harold coaxing Whiskey into the chair, slipping the drive into the slot, and watching, emotionless, as Whiskey was erased. Shaw looked out over the floor and toward Claire’s office. The doors were still tightly shut, and the windows fogged. Everything was the same, except everything was different. 

A few tweaks. “She’s not him.” Shaw’s voice was quiet. “She’s completely different. Closed off.”

Harold agreed, nodding. Shaw couldn’t tell if he was proud, but he wasn’t like he was when he’s showcased Root.

A thought occurred to her. “Does she know?”

Harold didn’t have to answer for her to know. He stiffened, releasing a long, deep breath. Then, he shook his head. The rage in Shaw’s chest boiled over again. Before she could argue, Harold said, “When Dr. Saunders was killed, we were without options.” Was that regret she heard? “Greer thought it would be better than finding someone new to replace him.” He threw his hands up. “She couldn’t go on engagements anymore, not like that. She needed another purpose, or -” He stopped.

Shaw knew what he was going to say. “They weren’t going to release her?” The bitter taste of hatred flooded her mouth. “Haven’t they done enough? Haven’t  _ you  _ done enough?”

Harold didn’t reply. He turned toward the window, toward Claire’s office, and Shaw noticed the weight of guilt resting across his shoulders. His face rested in a culpable frown, and Shaw recognized too much of herself in his expression.

“Sorry,” Shaw said, brushing the apology off with a shrug. “I’m going to tell her. She deserves to know.”

“Does she?” Harold countered. He rushed to stop her as she started toward the door. “I’ve programmed her with inherent knowledge of the Actives and the way we run the Dollhouse; I doubt she’ll be comforted to find out she’s one of them.”

Shaw stopped, frustrated. She pushed loose hair behind her ear. She couldn’t stand this, knowing but not knowing. She was back where she started, before all of this, and she didn’t know where to go from here. 

She left without saying another word, walking down the stairs.

It seemed Shaw went nowhere without Zachary knowing it. He jogged to catch up with her, falling into step. “Don’t you want to know how the rest of the engagement went?” he wondered.

She struggled to hold in a snappy retort. Instead, she said, “I’m good.” They arrived at the elevator and Shaw’s hands clasped together behind her back, though she itched to punch Zachary in the face.

“Are you going to Greer’s office?”

“Nope.”

Zachary moved to stand between her and the elevator, hands folded neatly in front of him. “I’ll escort you.”

She groaned. As she stepped into the elevator, Zachary followed. The air was as thick as smoke, as the two stood as far apart from each other as they could. Zachary’s foot tapped with the music, a tune Shaw couldn’t stand. She stared hard at the monitor, watching the numbers go up. Before the elevator arrived, Zachary shattered her concentration.

“Charlie’s good,” he commented, and it took Shaw until they passed the next floor to realize he was talking about her Active. 

“They’re as good as Harold makes them.”

Zachary sucked his teeth. “You don’t believe that, do you?” He looked at her like he knew everything, right down to the look in Root’s eyes before she dropped to her knees so many months ago. The only person she told was Carter.

The elevator stopped and the doors slid open. It was Greer’s floor and not the floor she wanted. “I don’t,” Shaw said, standing still.

Zachary held out an arm. “After you.”

Her smile was empty. “It’s not my floor.”

Zachary nodded. As he crossed the threshold, he stopped. Right as the door attempted to close again. “What was her name? Whiskey, right?”

Shaw said nothing.

“There’s a man with Greer right now… He requested Whiskey first. I understand the allure.”

Shaw almost surged forward. Her hands unclasped from behind her back, curling into fists. “You don’t understand shit.”

The moment Zachary smiled, Shaw knew she’d made a mistake. She’d played her hand, and now the game was in Zachary’s favor. He leaned toward her, so close she caught a whiff of his sharp cologne. “She would be very pretty,” he murmured. “If she didn’t have the scars and the, uh, non-existent self esteem.”

He walked off, leaving Shaw in the elevator. Shaw slumped against the wall when the doors closed. When the bell for the floor she wanted rang, she lashed out, fist going straight for the wall. Her knuckles cracked, but didn’t break. She bit her lip and closed her eyes, cradling her hand. She knew better. She could do better.

She was better.

 

.

 

Carter uncovered the wall her and John had created. Pictures, newspaper clippings, and dry erase marker litter the wall, connected with lines of red tape. At the top of it all, John Greer. Shaw leaned against the couch and pressed ice to her bruised knuckles. She chewed on a piece of ham and rested the remainder of a sandwich on the armrest. “Leave some space above Greer,” Shaw pointed out.

Carter turned, studying her work. “Why?”

“He’s following orders. There are more Dollhouses; gotta be someone in charge of them.” Shaw turned as John walked into the room.

“More?” Carter asks, shaking her head in disbelief. “This is some fucked up shit.”

“Tell me about it,” Shaw agreed. She looked at the bag John dropped on the floor, raising an eyebrow. The contents made a jumbled clang as it landed. “Liquor?”

“Guns,” he corrected. He fell into the couch, plagued by exhaustion. John had seen better days. His suit was still immaculate, but his weariness was in smaller, less noticeable ways. Like Shaw, he sported bruised knuckles. He was unshaven, his hair needed cutting, and the soles of his shoes were worn down. Shaw lifted the ice from her own knuckles, checking finger movement.

John noticed. “Please tell me you punched someone.”

“Of course,” Shaw answered, remembering a dented wall. 

Out of the corner of her eye, Shaw saw Carter shake her head, still facing the wall. Their apartment had turned into a pig sty at this point; discarded pizza and takeout boxes were sprawled across the room. Papers littered the tables and counters. Along with Reese’s bag of guns, there were guns in the car pushed back to the corner, taking their own rest. Shaw moved to sit in the couch, leaning back into the not-so-comfortable cushions.

She really needed a drink.

Carter pointed at a space above Greer. “So, any candidates?”

“None,” Shaw said. She crossed her arms, then winced, pulling her injured hand back. “I have no idea who could be running things.”

“It’s government.” On the wood floor, the heels of John’s dress shoes echoed the sound of an horse as he stepped forward. Carter and Shaw looked at him. “That’s all I know. I finished working for the CIA and they sent me there. Government recommendation, so therefore, government control.”

Carter scoffed. “Government control. Makes it sound like we’re trapped in one of those corrupt movies.”

Shaw craned her neck back to look at John, who only smirked. Carter groaned. “No way it’s government.”

“Hundred bucks,” Shaw said. As soon as she spoke, John shook his head.

“For what?” Carter almost squeaked. Her hands went in every direction before settling on her hips. “We are not betting on this.”

“Hundred bucks says it’s definitely government,” Shaw persisted.

Carter looked to John for support, but he shrugged. Shaw leaned forward, pressing her lips together. The silence was deafening as Carter glared. A long, tense moment passed before Carter let out the breath she’d been holding. “God, fine.”

Shaw pumped a fist in the air. 

“You’re insufferable,” Carter groaned, settling into an old leather chair on the other side of the couch. She sank into the leather like a brick in water, leaning her head back on the rest. John paused to pull out his phone, flipping his forefinger across the screen for a moment. 

He showed Shaw the screen. “After I’d been working there for a few weeks, this woman showed up.”

The picture was blurry, the face was unrecognizable, but the woman wore a black pantsuit, her hair done neatly in a bun, and her hand was up to the side of her head, a finger in her ear. It would look odd, to the commonplace person, but Shaw recognized the movement instantly. “She’s got an earpiece,” she said. She grinned, turning to Carter. “You owe me a hundred bucks.”

Carter looked at the picture, shaking her head resolutely. “Could be private contractor. Anyway, the government doesn’t pay for suits like that.”

“And the bet’s still on,” John remarked, pocketing his phone. 

Shaw leaned back once again, resting her hands behind her head. She ran her eyes over the photos, stilling on one of Martine. Martine smiled at the camera oddly, had her hair down, and Shaw squinted at the photo.

Sighing, Shaw said, “I sort of hope you win the bet, Joss. For Claire’s sake.”

  
  
  
  
  
  
  



	12. 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "What good are games," Greer mused, "if not for fun?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was going to say, happy post-POI day, but we have another tonight!!!

Shaw began to avoid Claire’s office. It was the right thing to do, not getting involved, and Shaw threw herself into it, avoiding the office at all costs. But when she passed by, she couldn’t help but glance toward the closed door on the way to Harold’s office. Harold noticed her distraction, too, when her gaze melted over toward the window in his office. Thankfully, he kept his mouth shut.

“Isn’t Charlie getting a treatment?” she asked one day, poking her head into his office.

Harold sat at his desk not hovering over the keyboard, but with a thick book in his lap. Shaw took one glance and that was enough. She’d had too much of mile long textbooks in medical school. Caleb sat near the corner, rapidly clicking at his mouse.

Hearing Shaw’s voice, Harold looked up. “I’ve had the imprint ready for a while,” he said. His brows furrowed as he noticed the clock. “I don’t know where he is.”

Shaw cursed under her breath, anticipating a lecture from Zachary for not knowing where Charlie was. She let the door fall shut and carried on down the stairs. She didn’t like searching the Dollhouse to begin with, mostly because she hated coming across the Actives doing weird things in weird places. Last week, she found one just staring at the wall. 

She systematically searched, going for the showers first. The minimal decor proved helpful, as she didn’t have to lift up any rugs or search any closets. “Thank fuck,” she muttered when she found the showers empty. She moved on to the rooms, the swimming pool, the art room, and finally, her gaze turned toward the always closed doors of Claire’s office. 

Resolving herself to go inside, Shaw stopped when she saw Martine. “Hey,” she said, stopping the other agent. “Have you seen my Active?”

“Yeah,” Martine answered, shrugging off Shaw’s grip. “I went to grab him for his treatment and the dummy goes, ‘My knee hurts’, so I dropped him off with the new Doc.” She looked toward Claire’s office, and dread twisted in Shaw’s stomach. “He should still be in there.”

“Thanks.” Shaw walked toward Claire’s office. Pushing inside, the sound of her entrance made Claire lookup. Once again, Shaw was struck by her beauty; Claire leaned over Charlie’s knee, her hair fell in waves over her shoulders, and her expression was momentarily innocent, childlike. Shaw imagined, just for a moment, that Whiskey stood there.

“Can I help you?” Claire asked, shattering Shaw’s illusion. Although her voice was soft, there was a harder edge supporting it, one Shaw recognized from last time.

Shaw nodded her head toward Charlie. “He’s mine. I’ve been looking all over for him.” She went to stand near them both, and as Charlie immediately put his hand on her upper arm, she resisted the urge to shrug him off. Shaw said, “Would’ve gone a lot faster if you just kept the door open.”

Claire raised an eyebrow, but said nothing. Shaw didn’t mean to sound offensive, but she bit her tongue anyway.

“My knee hurts,” Charlie said, surprisingly chipper for someone in pain.

Claire chuckled, the sound weightless. “He’s got some joint problems,” she murmured, watching Charlie flinch when she pressed her thumb in specific places on his knee. “Make sure Harold notes that for future imprints. We’ll monitor him through physical therapy.”

Motioning for Charlie to stretch out his leg, Claire continued her examination.

Shaw wandered the room. She didn’t notice Claire’s furtive glances toward her until she went toward the desk, and the glances spiked in number. She saw the computer screen for almost five seconds before Claire abandoned Charlie and rushed to turn the desktop off. Shaw tilted her head at the flush in Claire’s cheeks.

She’d turned off the screen, but not before Shaw saw that she’d been on  _ MeetCute.com _ .

Walking back over to Charlie, Shaw said, “You don’t get out much, do you?”

Claire sent her a dark look, dark enough for Shaw to consider taking her words back. “You weren’t supposed to see that.”

Shaw decided she was in safe territory. “I gathered.”

“I like to go out,” Charlie interrupted, and they both look at him. He smiled at them, oblivious to the underlying tension beneath the conversation.

Shaking her head, Shaw leaned against a table. Her shirt bunched up around her waist, revealing a small amount of her stomach. “Sorry I brought it up,” she said. She turned to Charlie. “Are you ready for your treatment?”

He nodded. “Yes.”

Shaw led him to the door, anticipating Charlie’s complaints the entire way up the stairs. Just as she stepped through the doorway, her hand tight around Charlie’s arm, Claire said, “Wait.”

Shaw turned back. Claire stood in the middle of her office looking quite desperate and at a loss for words. She opened and closed her mouth as she figured out what to say, and finally, just tucked her hair behind her ear and crossed her arms. “I don’t get out,” she said at last. The flush was gone from her cheeks. “I have a problem with - with crowds. People. And sunlight, open spaces, noise, and pets. Especially pets. The sum of my equation doesn’t equal pretty. It’s - I’m a mess.”

Shaw held her gaze. Charlie made some weird sound with his mouth. Shaw said, “Looks pretty to me,” and then, she led Charlie away.

 

.

 

She used to hate spending time at the Dollhouse. She used to hate the Handlers’ quarters, or the gallery with its stupid fountain. But, the gallery was the on the way to Claire’s office, and she liked Claire’s office. What had started as distaste on Claire’s end had morphed into a friendship of some sorts, and Shaw took what she could get. 

She spent most, if not all, of her time at the Dollhouse in Claire’s office. 

Harold stopped being interesting. Shaw had always been a fan of watching people work, but as Harold invested himself in his computers and the imprint process, he was scarcely up for conversation.

So Shaw watched Claire work. Occasionally, Claire talked to her, but they sat in a comfortable silence, getting their own work done. The healthy supply of lollipops began to dwindle as Shaw devoured them day by day, but wordlessly, Claire restocked them.

Shaw hasn’t figured her out yet. Not yet. Claire didn’t smile when Shaw jokes; she chuckled without grinning, a feat Shaw never knew was possible. She answered Shaw’s questions with one word answers, but they somehow never shut down the conversation. Shaw always had more questions. Claire always had answers.

Through Claire, Shaw got to know the Actives inhabiting the Dollhouse, the ones she never paid attention to. She never spent more time than she had to at the Dollhouse, but she watched now, assessing their various weakness and strengths.

Like Charlie, Kilo had a bad knee. Every time she came in for an examination, she touched Claire’s hair, tangling her fingers in the strands. 

“Stop that,” Claire grumbled one afternoon, sending Shaw a furtive glance. It was the first time in hours that Claire had acknowledged Shaw’s existence, checking to see if Shaw was watching. Shaw always watched, but Claire never complained about the company.

When Shaw met Juliet, the most surprising thing was that he was a man, standing at six feet with a body of mostly muscle. He had a dopey grin, but Shaw watched him carefully, anyway.

Another day, Shaw attempted to start a lasting conversation. “Harold’s the puppetmaster, I think.”

Claire looked up from her report. She was filing one on the cough virus moving from Active to Active, the same one that had Charlie confined to his bed for the last two days. Shaw continued, “He’s holding the strings to all of these people. He could be programming them all to kill us and we wouldn’t even know it.”

When Shaw said Harold’s name, Claire stiffened. She hid her discomfort well, replying, “You would know.” She looked at Shaw from over her shoulder. “You need pretty good at that sort of thing.”

“What sort of thing?”

“Reading people,” Claire said. By some sick twist of fate, Claire figured out more about Shaw than Shaw had about her, proving Claire wrong. “What are you, ex-military?”

“Not military,” Shaw said immediately. She sighed, picking up a small puzzle from Claire’s desk. “And I can’t read you.” It was easier to say because Claire always felt distanced from her, not real. Shaw stared at Claire’s eyes as she said it, saw the life in them, and averted her gaze. She never did this; talking about her feelings made her uneasy.

Shaw could feel that Claire was the same. Claire shrugged. “You’ve been asking the wrong questions.”

Claire moved away from the door and looked down at her clipboard. Suddenly, she was in Shaw’s space, shuffling past her to set the clipboard onto her desk. Shaw was a statue, not breathing when Claire paused, inches away from her. One moment, then, it was gone.

Fingers curling around the edge of the desk, Claire occupied the space next to her. They sat and surveyed the room. “I’ve never seen you out of here,” Shaw said.

“That’s not a question.”

“Why don’t you leave?” The question surprised them both. It was instinct on Shaw’s part. 

“I work a lot,” Claire said, soft. “I sleep sometimes.”

Shaw was too aware of the small amount of space between her right arm and Claire’s left. She could feel the warmth of the other woman’s body. “Where?” she asked. “Do you have an apartment somewhere in the city?” The question stemmed from her wish to know how far the Dollhouse would go for the illusion. 

“Here,” Claire answered, not looking Shaw in the eye. “I sleep here.”

“Oh.”

Claire looked down, noticing their hands less than an inch apart. She stared at the floor, crossing her ankles. Under her lab coat, tucked into her dress pants, she wore a soft floral print. Shaw thought about the silk of it, how soft it would be under her fingers. 

She shook her head. “It’s not right.” She wanted so badly to tell Claire.

“What?”

“You deserve better,” Shaw sighed. She was one step away from storming into Greer’s office yet again. Claire deserved to know who she was, even if the truth might hurt her. 

If Shaw hadn’t been so angry, so tired and hurt, she might’ve noticed the brief glance Claire sent to her lips. She only noticed when Claire was leaning in, and all thoughts of Greer melted away. Claire paused less than an inch away, her breath bouncing across the chapped skin of Shaw’s lips, and just as Shaw made the decision to surge forward, her fingers brushing Claire’s hand, her phone buzzed in her pocket.

Claire moved away from her like she’d been burned. Like it never happened, or almost happened.

“Yeah,” Shaw answered, looking at Claire’s back as the doctor moved away. Claire ran a hand through her hair, staring at the wall.

“Ms. Shaw,” Greer said. “If you would come to my office.”

“Yeah, okay.” Shaw still felt the heat of Claire near her. She hung up and stood in the middle of Claire’s office before disappearing through the doors. The ride to Greer’s floor made Shaw think of the what ifs. What if they had kissed?

Shaw let her head fall against the wall as she rode up.

Greer was alone when she shoved her way through the doors. She didn’t feel like she was interrupting, as he was doing what he always did: sitting at the couch and drinking. Shaw could get behind a life like that. He didn’t acknowledge her when she came in, not until he’d refilled his glass.

Shaw broke the silence, watching amber liquid fill the clear glass. “Someone needs to tell her.” Anger trickled into her voice.

“Is it going to be you?” Greer asked. He was mocking her, keeping his voice light. “If you answered yes to the question,” he added, “you may want to consider new employment.”

“You’re the one who wanted me,” she spat. She remembered the phone calls, the fake outs. He’d practically stalked her.

(Or, at least, that’s what she was telling herself. That he needed her more than she needed him. That she had leverage.)

“Not me,” he clarified, but went on to say nothing more. Shaw was as confused as ever, so she stood there, fists curled at her side, and felt the tension roll through her as her muscles locked and unlocked. From the top of her head to the tips of her toes.

“Who, then?” she demanded. She was tired of his games. “Because I remember you on your knees and begging.” She was exaggerating, but she was pissed.

Greer looked up at her. She was struck by how old he looked, how worn and wrinkled. Not unlike John’s worn shoes. The lines of his face were deep, tired, and creased unnaturally in all the wrong places.

“Important people, Ms. Shaw.” That was it. “Dr. Saunders lives a pleasant life, and you telling her about her past will only taint what hope she has of a future.”

Shaw heard the veiled threat loud and clear.

“Okay,” she said. She felt like she was giving up. She reminded herself of the long game, of the rabbit and the tortoise. “I’ll play your game,” she growled. “Doesn’t mean I’ll like it.”

“What good are games,” Greer mused, “if not for fun?”

 

.

 

“What are you sulking about?” Martine asked, catching up with Shaw as the shorter woman stormed through the gallery. Martine’s voice was too chipper, like nails scratching on the chalkboard of Shaw’s psyche. 

“None of your business.” The thing was, she didn’t mind Martine, most of the time. The woman had grown on her. But Martine needed to fuck off. Soon.

They stopped in the agent breakroom. It was empty, save for the bubbling coffee maker in the corner. Shaw whirled around, just as Martine started to talk again. “Stop,” she said, raising a brow. “I’m not in the mood to deal with you right now.”

“Deal with me?” Martine scoffed. She crossed her arms, blocking Shaw’s exit. “I’ve saved your sorry ass too many times to count, Sam.”

Shaw stiffened, abruptly aware of the weight of her gun. She itched for it. “Don’t call me that.”

A smile pulled at the edges of Martine’s lips. “What are you afraid of, Shaw?” Martine looked around them, at the peeling corners of paint and the dry, cracking walls. “Is it this place? The people?”

Shaw said nothing.

“This place is the future, Shaw. Get on the train or get left at the station.”

“What kind of future,” Shaw managed to grind out, “involves voluntarily leaving people in the dust?”

She thought of Cole, buried under layers of conspiracy. The medical students in her class who didn’t make it. The agents in her training class who were cut. The people Martine had definitely stepped on to get where she was now.

“That’s progress.” Martine’s voice was a whisper. “The people who refuse to acknowledge the changing, twisting future are the people who will be left in the past.”

Shaw tried again to sidestep her, but Martine still stood in front of her, an intimidating two inches taller. Whatever. 

“These people, the Dolls, they’re all collateral damage. For the greater good. Your doctor? She wouldn’t last a moment in the real world.”

Shaw slammed Martine against the wall. Her forearm, pressed against Martine’s neck; she felt Martine’s thundering pulse under her skin. The impulse was less out of anger for herself, but for Whiskey, who deserved better than this place. Who deserved to be set free.

Martine laughed, a little breathier than usual. “You don’t think her real imprint is just unicorns and sunshine?” When Shaw said nothing, Martine rolled her eyes. “These people, they come here because they want to forget. Are there things you want to forget?”

Martine’s hands rested on the side of Shaw’s arm. Shaw growled, “Regardless of how they got here, they deserve better than you. Than Greer. Than me.”

“You really are naive,” Martine said, letting her head fall against the wall. “Would you ever kill to scrape the terrible things you’ve done out of your head?” Martine’s eyes twinkled with corruption. “I’ve seen your file, Sam. You’re a killer.”

Shaw jolted Martine against the wall. “Don’t call me that.”

“Tell me you wouldn’t,” Martine goaded. “Tell me you wouldn’t walk through those doors and let them scrape your mind clear, give them five years of service, and then walk out of that door forever.”

She thought of the first time she’d pulled the trigger. The first time she heard a grown man, terrorist or not, slump against the wall and cough, teeth bloody with death. The first time, she’d watched him die. The second time, she’d listened. The third, Cole sat in the van and congratulated her for another mission. Another death.

“You would,” Martine said, smiling. 

Shaw dropped her. Martine didn’t grasp as her neck, merely tooth a deep breath. “Get the fuck away from me.”

Martine left without a word, and Shaw wondered what the fuck she was doing here.


	13. 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I’m sorry,” John said; his eyes were far away. “I started all of this, by telling Greer about you and Whiskey.”

It was too late for Shaw to go home. She considered sleeping in Harold’s office, but remembered Caleb. Instead, she found a closet in the Handlers’ quarters, and slipped into the risky, uncomfortable cot shoved against the wall. She took off her bra, slid out of her pants, and curled up with the blanket. 

The room was small, empty. A window edged the ceiling, revealing the harsh lights of a hallway on the floor above. In this room, Shaw could see nothing from outside, the real world. She turned over, pressing her face into the shitty pillow. 

Almost to sleep, walking the line between consciousness and unconsciousness, she jolted awake when she heard a shuffle across the floor.

The darkness was opaque. Shaw heard only her heartbeat. “Who is it?” Her voice crackles.

“It’s me.” Claire’s voice. Small as a mouse.

Shaw relaxed, leaning back against the wall. Claire came into view and sat on the edge of the bed. Shaw said, “What are you doing here?”

“I live here.”

“I mean,” Shaw said, aware of Claire inching closer and closer to her. “In my bunk.”

Claire’s hand wandered. Shaw held her breath as Claire pressed a flat palm against her stomach. A new kind of fire burned in Shaw’s belly. “I wanted something,” Claire said. Her touch was light, like butterflies flitting from one flower to another. Her fingers touched a scar on Shaw’s abdomen, running along the wasted skin. She said, “I wanted you.”

Shaw could just barely make out her silhouette; she would kill to know what Claire’s expression was. She sat up, brushing Claire’s hand out of the way inadvertently, and she ended up closer than she meant. “Claire,” she said.

“What’s your first name?” Claire asked, still mesmerized by the scars sketched across Shaw’s skin. Her voice was distant; Shaw reached for her, grasping her wrist. 

“Sameen,” she said. She rethinks her answer. “Sam.”

The heat from before, from when they were in the office, it returned. Only this time, there was no phone to interrupt them. 

Claire’s kiss was different than Root’s. The first thought to roll through Shaw’s mind was that she could get used to this. Claire was more reserved, softer, and Shaw melted against her. She leaned into her, pulling at Claire’s bottom lip with her teeth. She pushed her tongue into Claire’s mouth, weaving her hand through the hair at the base of her neck. 

Hands pulled at Shaw’s tank; Claire kissed her desperately. 

“I can’t,” Shaw said, pulling herself away.

Everything came rushing back to her. The danger. 

Claire was silent. She pulled at her clothes, rumpled up from the kissing. “I thought,” she started - like a piece of shattered glass, she reflected the hurt in Shaw’s chest. “I thought you liked me.”

“Shit,” Shaw breathed. She didn’t want to get up and turn on the light, but she wished she could see. She wanted to see the hurt on Claire’s face and rub it away, smoothing out the worry lines. “Claire, I do. You’ve got to believe that.”

“Then why don’t you want me?” she muttered. She stood up, adding to the distance between them. “I always do this.” Shaw couldn’t see her, but she felt the tension. Claire chuckled ruefully. “I’m such a pathetic -”

“No,” Shaw interrupted. “You’re not - It’s  not.” She stopped. “You’re not real, Claire.” The words came out in a rush. She swore she could see the moment Claire broke in the reflection of her eyes. “You’re one of them. Harold, he made you. You’re not real.”

The gears turned inside Claire’s head. “I know who I am,” she spat, voice pure venom. 

She left Shaw to stare at the darkness, eyes adjusting to nothing. Claire’s kiss burned against her lips; Shaw reached up and touched them, letting her fingertips drag across the cracked skin. 

 

.

 

In the night, the Dollhouse was eerie and silent. As Harold looked through the windows that normally showed the gallery floor, he saw only black. A complete darkness. There were no windows down here. Caleb came to stand next to him. “Man, it sure is creepy.”

This was the first time they had worked well into the night, preparing the onslaught of imprints for the morning. Harold went into the other room. “You can go to sleep, if you’d like.” 

He motioned at the boy and the door that led to a small sleeping quarters. The lines under Caleb’s eyes pulled taut as he smiled. “Thanks, Mr. Finch.”

He left Harold alone. He typed in the code calmly, enjoying the silence after all. He realized he’d left something in the other room. Standing to get it, his back twinged. He straightened it almost unconsciously, so used to the movement now. 

He found Claire Saunders sitting in the main office. On the computer screen, Whiskey’s face glittered. “Dr. Saunders?”

“I think you gave me more computer skills than would be required by a medical doctor,” Claire muttered. She scrolled through the file, scanning her eyes over the information. She faced him, tilting her head. She said, “It was very easy for me to hack your system.”

Harold winced. It wasn’t supposed to happen this way. 

“I’m curious,” Claire said, standing up. She was wearing a nice blouse, pants that flattered her figure. She looked nothing like the doctor who practically lived in the office downstairs. 

“About?”

Claire crossed her arms, leaning against the office desk. “Well, I guess I understand why they wouldn’t want to waste an investment,” Claire said. She didn’t so much as say the words, but spit them. “And I suppose, why hire a new physician when you can just imprint the broken Doll.”

Flinching, Harold reached up to push his glasses up. 

Claire, she said, “But why did you decide it was so important for me to hate you?” Her voice was a blade, words plunging deep into Harold’s diaphragm. Twisting. “I think it’s strange.”

The two of them faced each other for a moment, Claire’s eyes searching for an answer in Harold’s that didn’t exist. Claire walked off, then, and stopped only when Harold’s voice cut through the silence. 

“You didn’t open it,” Harold said. “Your file. Whiskey’s file.”

“No,” she said, not turning around.

“Aren’t you curious to see who you really are?”

Claire turned, eyes burning through him. “I know who I am.” 

 

.

 

Shaw used her day off to work out at the safehouse. Carter came and went, just sending Shaw glances full of pity. On the television, there was a firefight. Guns, explosions, all of it. The sounds calmed Shaw, even if they weren’t worth a dime on the real thing. The dramatization of an intelligence activity was mediocre at best, but at least the women with guns were hot.

And they keep Shaw’s mind off Claire.

When John came, he stood at the kitchen counter and watched her for a bit, before settling on the couch. As Shaw pumped out push-up after push-up, she finally cracked.

“Do you mind?”

“Hm?” John sipped at a Coke.

“Stop watching me,” she snapped. She was tired, but not malicious. She stopped working out, pushing herself onto the couch next to him. “Do you want an update?”

“As there are no leads on our end,” he said, “an update would be nice?”

“Ass,” Shaw complained. “Martine’s deep into it.”

“Rousseau? I remember doing background checks on her when she was hired. She’s dutch, used to be an investigator for the Hague. She was basically in the Dutch CIA.” On the TV, something blasted apart. 

“That doesn’t explain the way she was acting.” Shaw muted the TV. “She got this weird look in her eyes. The Dollhouse has completely corrupted her.”

“No chance she’ll help us, then.” John’s tone turned dejected; Shaw hadn’t even known he was considering Martine as an option. She raised an eyebrow and John shrugged. “As many people as we can get on the inside helps.”

Shaw checked the time. It was early, but she felt fatigue pulling at her. “I’m out.” 

“Our next move is your call,” John reminded her. “As soon as you’re ready to start.”

“I have to get Claire sorted out.” Shaw rubbed at the back of her neck, remembering the shitstorm of a night. “As soon as she’s on our side of her own accord, we’ll go.”

She turned to go, but John stopped her again. “Shaw.”

She faced him. 

“I’m sorry,” he said; his eyes were far away. “I started all of this, by telling Greer about you and Whiskey.”

Shaw shook her head. “It’s okay. I started it the moment -”  _ I let Root lead me into that bathroom.  _ John didn’t know about that.

“I started it,” she amended, leaving her words cryptic. “Let’s just both cop the blame and call it good.”

John bowed his head, acquiescing. 

The next day, Shaw woke from a fitful sleep. Her dreams were full of cloudy faces and grey figures with no names; something inside told her whoever they are, they must be imprints. Hundreds of them. Just ghosts with nothing to grasp onto. Shaw woke feeling just like she did before she went to sleep, like she always did: tired and sore.

Shaw went to work and found exactly what she always did: Claire’s office door closed. Despite their near miss the day before, it meant nothing.

Martine materialized out of thin air. “Doc’s AWOL. Greer’s pissed.” She nudged Shaw’s shoulder with her own. “Like it’s the least of our problems.”

Not elaborating, Martine left Shaw in the middle of the gallery alone to stare at Claire’s door. Where could she be? Shaw shut away the worry she felt in her stomach and went to Harold’s office.

Shaw intercepted Zachary on the way, with Charlie in tow. Something was off. Charlie was quiet and unhappy, not smiling like he usually did, and Zachary was being too rough with him, his expression grim.

“Hey, watch it,” Shaw warned, intervening. She transferred Charlie’s care to herself, taking his hand in her own. The moment she touched him, Charlie relaxed, sinking into her. It was weird, him being a grown man and acting like a puppy, but Shaw was getting used to it. She let him cower against her.

Anything to get him away from Zachary.

As they walked into the office, Caleb came out of the woodwork, grinning like he was given the keys to his first car. Harold followed from the other room.

“Charlie,” Caleb gushed, “Are you ready for your treatment?”

“Yes,” Charlie murmured. His lack of enthusiasm did nothing to dampen Caleb’s excitement. Charlie glanced toward Shaw, worried, when Caleb took his free hand. Shaw noticed Harold and Zachary standing in the doorway, and then the elder scientist closed the door, leaving them alone.

“Caleb created this imprint,” Harold supplied.

Shaw helped Charlie into the chair. “Awesome.” Her sarcasm was getting better.

Her lack of good attitude wasn’t contagious. Caleb was buzzing, stroking the controls like a finely tuned instrument, one that he’d been practicing for years. Harold must be a good teacher. Shaw sat back and watched Harold’s neutral expression morph into something like pride as Caleb manipulated the controls.

“It’s ready,” Caleb announced to no one in particular.

Charlie was already in the chair, bouncing his good knee. Shaw knew he could feel the energy in the room, despite having the mental capacity of a child. He smiled at Shaw, catching her looking at him, and she sighed, shaking her head.

The chair moved back, the lights flashed, and Caleb couldn’t help but grin as he pressed the final button.

When Charlie sat up, he was a different man (out of the corner of her eye, Shaw saw Caleb do a fist pump into the air). Shaw, on the other hand, was used to this. She got her briefings from the Actives, once they’d been imprinted; they were pre-programmed with inside knowledge of the job. It happened that way with Root, and now with -

“Tomas Koroa,” Charlie says, holding his hand out to Shaw. “You’re my partner, right?”

Shaw looked to Harold, who nodded. Just once. She turned back. “Yeah. Sameen Shaw.” His handshake was firm. She wondered how the shadow across his face was suddenly more attractive. 

“Sameen. A gorgeous name.” He looked at her, really looked at her, and Shaw noticed his light eyes, a slight curve to his lips, and the cut of his jaw. She was seeing Charlie for someone entirely different.

Was this what it was like when she saw Root?

No, Root had been overt. Flirtatious. Tomas was… hot.

“So,” she said, averting her gaze, “What are we doing?”

Tomas hopped off the chair. He was still in the too-tight, white t-shirt and sweatpants. Shaw was still his handler. “As soon as I get out of these clothes,” he started, winking at her, “I believe we’re stealing something. The client will give us the info, and I’ll give you the plan.”

Shaw glared at Harold. “Why is it always illegal?”

“I don’t think it is,” Harold remarked, checking the dossier on his computer. “But Tomas is an expert thief.”

“Hot  _ and  _ talented,” Shaw muttered. “Great.”

“What was that?”

“Nothing,” she sighed. Tomas sent her a look that told her he heard every word.

Together, they leave Harold’s office and walk to the immense basement that doubled as a wardrobe. Shaw told Tomas to pick anything he liked, and made her way to stay put outside of the door. He lifted his eyebrow. “Aren’t you coming in?”

“What? No.”

“I’ll need your opinion,” he urged. He reached for her hand and she didn’t snatch it back. She thought about it, but fuck, his hands were  _ smooth _ . Why weren’t they like that before? Tomas continued, “Tell me what looks best.”

“Whatever,” she grumbled, but she followed him inside. Usually, Shaw didn’t need to do much supervision once the imprint was uploaded. Tomas was needy, but in a this-man-is-completely-sexy kind of way. Shaw couldn’t really tell if she minded.

She stood off to the side as Tomas disappeared into the aisles. When he came back into view, he was shirtless, holding a suit ensemble in his arms. “What about this?”

“Looks great,” she said through her teeth.

His cockiness reminded her of Root, and Root reminded her of Claire, which turns her off completely. Claire was gone. She watched Tomas as he tried to get a rise out of her, flexing his body and slipping out of his sweatpants, leaving just the standard grey boxers provided by the Dollhouse.

She watched the entire thing, keeping a scowl across her face. He slid into the striped pantsuit, and while he looked very nice, Shaw just stared. Her held out a hand to her. She didn’t understand what compelled Caleb to create this, but goddamnit, Tomas infuriated her. 

“Are you ready, yet?” she snapped, tightening her crossed arms.

His smiled dimmed, but he still fell into step with her as they left. Shaw still couldn’t shake the image of Root in her mind.

 

.

 

With Tomas, Shaw was essentially the getaway driver. She could do that, really, but what she couldn’t stand was Tomas inside without backup. She got over the criminality of the engagement long ago, but she’d let Whiskey slip through her fingers too many times not to be cautious with Charlie. 

She sat in the car (a nice, sleek, and black Cadillac that Tomas “needed”) and tapped her leg, watching the clock she’d set before Tomas left. 

“Heart rate’s steady,” Harold told her. “Which is surprising.”

“Not really,” she said. “You’ve got to be able to keep your shit if you choose this as a lifestyle.”

“Well, he’s not exactly -”

“I know, Finch,” she interrupted. “It was a metaphor.”

“A bad one.”

She rolled her eyes. The clock ticked down. She wanted to be inside with Tomas, standing behind him like a shadow, just in case anything went wrong. Instead, Shaw stared down the dark alleyway, rolling the details of the case through her mind like a flipbook.

“Why do they do this?” she muttered. She tightened her grip around the steering wheel. Tomas had three minutes and forty-two seconds. 

“Do what?” Harold’s voice came through the static.

“Y’know. The criminal activities.” Shaw leaned back into her seat, trying to force the tension out of her muscles. She still had three minutes. “I mean, what I did for the government wasn’t exactly legal, but at least it was sanctioned.”

“Hm,” Harold said. 

“You don’t know,” she accused. The longer she worked for the Dollhouse, the more she realized that Harold was just as in the dark as she was.

She didn’t know if she liked that, Zachary being the only one who knew more. She didn’t know why they chose to tell Zachary everything, instead of John. Or maybe they didn’t. She had no idea. “I don’t even know if John knows. Maybe he just isn’t telling me.”

“I’m sorry?” Harold perked up. “You’ve been talking to him?”

“No,” Shaw said, too quickly. “Has he talked to you?” It was something she’d been wondering anyway. She never knew how close they were, but John got all dark and shadowy whenever she mentioned Harold. 

Two minutes. “No,” Harold said. “And I haven’t attempted to call him.” His voice took on a more warning tone. “When he left, we were advised as a staff that it was probably better to let him go quietly.”

“That’s bullshit.”

“That, I’m beginning to realize.” Harold sighed. “Heart rate’s picking up.”

“He’s running,” Shaw said, at the same time Tomas said over her earpiece, “Shaw.”

“I’m here,” she said.

“I’m almost out,” he told her. He was out of breathe, sprinting, and Shaw forced the sound of his voice into another context in her head. At one minute and ten seconds, Tomas burst into the alley from a side door, different than the one he went in. His head ricocheted to either side, looking for her.

He spotted her and ran at full speed, halfway there as two men burst through the doors. With guns. Shaw revved her engine, foot hovering over the accelerator, and Tomas dived into the passenger seat. The car thrusted forward, barreling down the alley straight for the men. 

“Get down,” Shaw yelled. The car didn’t thump as she expected, and there wasn’t a spray of bullets. Shaw looked up just as they drove out of the alley, tires screeching. The men had dived out of the way. 

Tomas sat up, grinning like a madman. “That was fan _ tas _ tic! But there’s something I have to tell you.”

“That doesn’t sound good,” Harold said over the earpiece.

“It wasn’t there,” Tomas continues. “The vault was just empty. We got bad information.”

Shaw stared ahead stubbornly.  _ This  _ was why she needed to be informed. Tomas could’ve died, she could’ve gotten herself killed, all because she didn’t know her feet from her ass in the mission. “See, Harold,” she said. “This is why we don’t go in blind.”

Tomas looked at her oddly, and Shaw’s skin prickled under his gaze. She said, “Would you mind?”

“Sorry,” he said, shaking his head. “It’s just that, you’re gorgeous when you’re angry.” He pressed his lips together in thought. “And I’ve got a feeling you’re angry all of the time.”

She ground her teeth together. She thought she heard Harold stifle a chuckle; she vowed to kill him when she got back. Him, Greer, and Zachary. The last two would get to bite the bullet for a multitude of reasons, but the forefront being the information withheld from today that almost killed them.

“Where do we go from here?” she asked Harold.

She held her finger up to silence Tomas while Harold answered. “Come back here, but I’m guessing the engagement will last longer than originally hoped. I’ll inform Greer before you arrive and explain the details of the situation.”

“Sounds good.” She turned her earpiece off. “Now you,” she said to Tomas. “Go.”

“We need to regroup,” he said intelligently. “Maybe head to a hotel and figure out what we might’ve missed in the initial information.”

“No hotels.” She remembered that night with Whiskey, where Whiskey wanted too much and Shaw wanted too much. “Wait,” she said, clicked her earpiece on again. “Harold?”

“Mhm?”

“Is Claire back yet?” She was a twenty-minute drive from the Dollhouse.

“I’ll check,” he offered, “but I haven’t seen her today.”

She shook her head, but clicked her piece off again. She wasn’t looking forward to spending upwards of half an hour alone (with traffic) in the car with Tomas, who both had the hots for her and a charm that twisted in her stomach.

Maybe it was digging into her because the last she got laid, it was Carter. Before that, Root. There was no way Tomas was going to be Doll #2.

  
  



	14. 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tomas might think they have a choice, but they don't. They never did.

The drive back to the Dollhouse went without incident. Tomas flipped through the radio stations and Shaw let him, until he finally settled on one boasting the latest music that Shaw hadn’t ever heard before. She wasn’t a big radio-listener, but when Tomas started to hum the songs under his breath, she rolled her eyes. Of course Harold’s nerd would’ve given him up-to-date knowledge of the Top 100. 

She led Tomas through the entrance that went directly to Harold’s office; she stopped only when Tomas’s expectant gaze threw her off. “Is it time for a treatment?”

“Don’t think so,” she said. Instead of going to Harold’s office, they headed another direction: toward Greer’s.

Inside, Harold and Zachary were already in heated conversation. The voices fell silent when Shaw knocked, and Zachary opened the door with more emotion on his face than Shaw had ever seen. His irritated gaze flipped to Tomas. “Mr. Koroa,” he said, switching into the casual charisma Shaw was used to. “We’ve all been waiting patiently for your return.”

“You’d be a great politician,” Shaw remarked, shoving past him.

Tomas mirrored her bad attitude, following her. It was almost like Whiskey in the tabula rasa, where the woman followed Shaw around like a puppy, but now Tomas looked to her for social cues. He wasn’t programmed for failure, but he knew how to improvise.

Together, they sat on the couch. “So,” she said, catching Harold’s eye from across the room, “why was our information bad?”

“Just incomplete,” Zachary interrupted, but Greer sent him a look.

“This isn’t a regular engagement, Ms. Shaw,” Greer supplied. He shrugged. “We’ll give you new coordinates and you’ll follow them. Together,” he added, looking to Tomas, “you’ll get what we need.”

“And our compensation?” Tomas questioned, sitting tall. All the boyish qualities Shaw had seen all day had vanished; now, he was all business. “For our trouble, I think double is appropriate.”

Zachary stepped in. “Of course. And an added half.”

Tomas nodded, satisfied.

Shaw wasn’t. “I want to know what this is for,” she argued. “What are we taking - what are we risking our lives for?”

“What we don’t pay you for,” Greer started, “is to ask questions. We can assure you that this new information is accurate, and no more trouble will come with the engagement. Isn’t that enough?”

At the same time, Shaw shook her head, and Tomas said, “Yes.”

Tomas looked at her, eye urging her to take the money and go. She’d seen that look before, a long, long time ago. They weren’t getting the money, but he didn’t know that.

“Whatever,” she said. “Let’s go.”

On the way out, Shaw took a detour. She went toward Claire’s office, but found the doors locked. “Can you pick this?” she asked Tomas. Both of them glanced over their shoulders, checking for any surveillance, before Tomas nodded.

“Of course.” He got the door open in a second, and one second more, they were slipping inside. Tomas looked around, expecting more, but Shaw zeroed in on Claire’s desk. The top of it was bare. Days ago, there’d been a humming laptop, a few knick knacks, and even a framed picture of a picturesque view. Now, there was nothing.

Shaw went for the drawers, pulling them open. All empty. The only thing that told Shaw anyone used to inhabit the office was the labcoat on the wall. Before she realized it, she stepped forward and buried her face in the fabric. Claire smelled like sterility and light perfume. Something floral.

She’d failed. She’d let Claire slip through her fingers and she had no idea how to get her back.

She let the fabric slip through her fingers, and turned. “Let’s go,” she said, striding toward the door.

“Do you believe them?” he asked, catching up with her.

“Do we have a choice?” 

He might think they do, but they don’t. They never did.

 

.

 

“She’s just gone,” Shaw whispered. She followed Tomas through a hallway; her skin itched with deja vu. It felt a lot like when Whiskey got shot. “I looked through her desk, but there was nothing.”

“I haven’t heard any word here,” Harold replied.

Shaw had gotten used to the inflections in his voice. It piqued when he was worried, and his words drew closer together. When he was annoyed, as he often was, he drew out his tone in long, stretched syllables. 

“Maybe you could peel it out of Zachary,” she suggested. Tomas crept up to a corner and the deja vu tore through Shaw, almost rendering her immobile. She snagged his shirt with a fist and shoved past him to peek around the corner first. No way Tomas was getting shot on her watch.

Tomas grinned at her in the shadows when all was clear. Shaw rolled her eyes; every move she made proved Tomas’s crush was growing bigger.

“I’ll try,” Harold said. “Tomas’s tracker puts the two of you just a few doors away from the target.”

“Helpful.” She beckoned Tomas, pointing toward the second door on the right. The gun in her hand felt heavier, her tread felt lighter, and Tomas’s breathing was the only thing she could hear: loud and shallow. “Be quiet,” she snapped.

He held his breath. As she pulled the knob and pushed the door open, she held her breath, too.

She pressed her back flat against the wall. She ducked into the room with her gun ready, eyes scanning as fast as they could. Only, there was no one there. Just boxes. She called out, “Clear.”

Tomas stepped in, sliding gloves onto his fingers. “Weirdest job I’ve ever been on,” Tomas commented, scanning the labels of a few boxes.

Shaw wanted to point out that he hadn’t been on any other jobs, but she held her tongue. Instead, she said to Harold, “What are we looking for, Finch?”

“A box labeled with a shipping code CA nine-four-one-nine-dash-one,” he said. “At least, that is what Greer told me.”

Shaw repeated the code to Tomas, and together, they started to read the labels, searching. When they were halfway through the boxes, ten minutes in, Harold added, “Also, don’t take the box. Just what’s inside.”

“Roger that,” Shaw said.

“Got it,” Tomas said, almost a second later. She turned to find him hovering over a small, but long box. She told him to open it, watching him carefully cut open the seal without leaving a trace.

Tomas held up blueprints, tightly rolled up. Shaw stared at them, trying to wrack her mind as to why. Headless of Harold’s warning, Tomas and her spread the papers out. It took Shaw a moment, but she realized why Greer wouldn’t tell her what the engagement was for. She was looking at blueprints for a portable wiping device, used to imprint anyone with Active technology.

“Where are we?” she asked Tomas. “Did you see a sign on the warehouse?”

“Not that I can remember,” he said. “I think it’s just storage.”

“Ms. Shaw?” Harold asked over the link. “What is it?”

“A nightmare.” Shaw rolled the sheets up again, avoiding Tomas’s quizzical gaze. 

Silent on the drive back to the Dollhouse, Shaw was lost in her thoughts and the feeling of dread in her stomach. Her fingers wound tight around the steering wheel, knuckles white as she imagined the look on Greer’s face when she finally put a bullet in his head.

Only when Tomas spoke did it shake her out of her reverie.

“What?”

“I said,” he repeated, grinning demurely (he had that smile, those perfectly straight, white teeth), “When do we have to report back?”

She narrowed her eyes. “Why?”

He pulled the gloves off of his hands. Shaw’s knee prickled as Tomas put a hand on it, just above her knee. “I thought we might catch some dinner.”

“Dinner,” she echoed. “I don’t think that’s what you have in mind.”

“It’s not,” he said. “But don’t pretend you haven’t been thinking about me, either.” His thumb rubbed on the outside of her knee, and a jolt ran up her leg. “We’d be great together, Sameen.”

In the middle of Los Angeles traffic, Tomas leaned in to kiss her. Shaw let him. His face was scratchy, prickly in the good way, and his lips were messy. When his hand drifted up her thigh, she pulled away. She had a job to do.

“It’s time for your treatment,” she said, and the charm melted right from his features.

Tomas sat back into his chair, pulling his hand back into his lap. “Yes,” he said. “I’d like that.”

 

.

 

After Shaw dropped off the imprints and Charlie, she went home. Not to the safehouse, but to her shitty apartment to get some peace and quiet. She cracked open a beer, drowned in her couch, and let the cold slip refreshingly down her throat. Her muscles ached, her lips tastes like the sting of cologne, and she stood up to go to the bathroom.

She stripped slowly, relishing in the small tugging of her muscles as she stretched. She stood under the hot spray of the shower, letting the heat drown her thoughts.

She toweled out her hair when she was done, slipping into a pair of sweatpants and a tank top. She had a long night of restlessness before her.

When she called, Harold answered on the third ring. “Hello?” She sent a sideways glance toward the clock; it was too late to be calling.

“Have you seen Claire?” Shaw fell into the couch again, sliding her fingers through wet hair.

“No,” he said. “Everyone else around her seems to have noticed that she has, in fact, gone missing.”

“Missing?”

“It seems like Dr. Saunders slipped out after our confrontation and hasn’t been seen since,” Harold informed her. “She packed up all of her things, took the keys to one of the vans, and left.”

“Which van?” Shaw asked. She hadn’t used hers today. Tomas and her took a rental car.

Harold said something to someone else, probably Caleb. Shaw waited a few agonizingly long seconds. “Yours,” Harold said finally. 

Someone knocked at Shaw’s door. “Hang on, someone’s here.”

She got up slowly, eyeing the gun on her kitchen counter. She dropped her cellphone to her waist, peeking through the peephole. Shit. “Finch, I’ve got to go.”

“I -”

She hung up, opened the door, and came face to face with Claire Saunders.

Claire looked different. Shaw couldn’t place how, as she stood in her doorway, but it could’ve been the placement of her shoulders, or her scars, a bit more healed up. Surveying her, Shaw opened her mouth, but couldn’t find any words.

Breaking the silence, Claire said, “Hi.”

“Hey,” Shaw breathed, letting out all of the tension. She leaned against the doorframe, crossing her arms. 

It was weird, Claire being here. Shaw’s apartment had always been separate from the equation: it was away from the Dollhouse, away from the safehouse, but now Claire was melding that, pushing her way in. And Shaw was letting her. 

Shaw noticed the bag at Claire’s feet as the other woman shifted. “I don’t have anywhere to go,” she admitted, looking down the hallway. 

“What about back to the Dollhouse?” Shaw didn’t mean for the venom to leak into her voice. “Where you live.”

“It was suffocating,” Claire said, voice small. “Being underground all of the time. You were right about me needing to get out sometime.” She ran a hand through her hair, tangling her fingers in it. “I went to the ocean. I’ve… lived in Los Angeles all this time and I don’t remember ever going to the ocean.”

Shaw sighed, stepping out of the way to wave Claire inside. When Claire brushed past, Shaw caught her scent, the deep smell of saltwater, and almost chuckled. Instead, she held her breath, watching Claire take in her small apartment. 

“Sameen,” Claire said, tasting the sound of it, the way her tongue rolled around it. Shaw decided she would never understand how the different imprints would be so chaotically separate. Claire flushed, apologetic. “Sorry. Sam.” She took a deep breath. “I went to the ocean and thought a lot about what you said. What you told me.”

“How was the water?” Shaw asked, thinking about Claire’s bare feet twisting in the sand. She didn’t meet Claire’s gaze.

“Cold, at night,” Claire offered. She leaned against the counter. “I sat in the sand and let the water touch my feet. It felt real.” Shaw looked up and saw barely shed tears in Claire’s eyes. Claire stared at her without fear, regardless. “I felt real.”

“You are real,” Shaw was quick to say.

“I know.” Claire brushed her off. “I had to find out for myself.” She smiled at Shaw. “I know you don’t think so, not deep down.” Shaw wisely kept her mouth shut. “In the heat of the moment, the truth came out.”

“I didn’t mean what I said,” Shaw explained, remembering that night. “I was thinking of the bigger picture, keeping you safe, and with everything going on, there wasn’t a quicker way to tell you. Or at least, I couldn’t think of one.”

Claire shrugged, but Shaw didn’t miss the way she looked away, blinking, when Shaw mentioned safety. “Everyone thinks it, right?” When Shaw started to answer, she said, “Don’t. I don’t care. I’ll get over it.” She let out a wet breath. “I always do.”

Shaw inched closer, closing the room-sized gap between them. “It doesn’t mean anything. You’re still a brilliant doctor.”

“Based off an even more brilliant man,” Claire supplied, gazing at her.

“I prefer you,” Shaw said, challenging. “You might say he’s better, but he’s dead. I’ve never met anyone like you. Not even him. You’re completely different.”

“My original.” Claire laughed bitterly. “My -”

Shaw stepped forward and cupped Claire’s face, kissing her. It was quick, just to cut her off, and it did the trick. When Shaw pulled back, Claire stared at her and pulled her lip between her teeth, tasting it. She traced the features of Shaw’s face with her eyes. 

“You weren’t lying,” Claire said quietly. “About liking me.”

“Lying’s not my style.”

Shaw waited for Claire to kiss her before pushing against her, pressing her against the edge of the counter. Teeth scratched against teeth as Shaw drew her in. 

Hands on Claire’s arms, Shaw angled them toward the bed shoved in the corner. Quick steps, messy kisses, and a tangle of sheets on the floor lead to Claire tripping backward and Shaw falling with her. Shaw hovered over her, kissing an open-mouthed Claire, tongue slipping against Claire’s.

She stopped, missing Claire’s lips entirely, and managed to press her lips against the jagged skin on Claire’s upper lip. She didn’t mean to be gentle. Wide eyes stared back at her when she pulled back, Claire’s chest bouncing with her breathing. Next to Claire’s head, the bed dimpled under Shaw’s weight. Holding her gaze, Shaw felt the heat of Claire like coals beneath her entire body, burning.

Nails dug into the skin on the back of her neck as Claire pulled her back into a heated mess of lips and tongue. 

Claire’s hand slipped down between them, tugging Shaw closer by her belt. Shaw pressed herself between Claire’s legs, between thighs that opened as Claire’s throat buzzed with a groan. 

“Sam,” she breathed, the end of it trailing into an unintelligible sound as Shaw scraped teeth against her pulse.

Running her hand over the sharp jut of Claire’s hip, Shaw sat up, bracketing either side of Claire’s hips with her thighs and shed her own shirt in one, quick motion. As she pulled at the hem of Claire’s plain tee, Claire rose to meet her, kissing her neck, collarbones, and finally the upper curve of her breast.

She had Shaw’s bra unclasped before Shaw could realize she’d reached around her, and she pressed her hands into Shaw’s breasts. Shaw’s hips rolled unconsciously, commencing a rhythm, and Claire kissed her, tongue circling a hardened nipple. Claire palmed the other breast, nails digging into soft, sensitive flesh.

“Your turn,” Shaw growled, voice low. She tore at Claire’s shirt, throwing it to the side. The shirt hit a beer bottle on the other side of the room, knocking it onto the floor. The sound of Claire’s laughter reverberated through Shaw as Claire leaned into her neck.

Shaw seized Claire’s hands after she pushed off Claire’s bra, pushing her back against the couch, pinning her arms above her head. 

Looking down at the woman beneath her, Shaw thought about all of them, at once. “Claire,” she said, testing the name.

Claire blinked at her, total and complete surrender. 

Shaw kissed Claire with closed eyes, trailing her hands down Claire’s bare stomach, feeling the skin beneath her flex and unflex with her touch. She pushed a thigh between Claire’s legs and listened to the hitch of her breath. 

Listening to Claire, hearing her breathing stall and falter as Shaw grinded against her, Shaw let herself drown in the feeling. She forgot about all of it; the sinister leaders of the Dollhouse, or the people who would hurt Whiskey, on account of her. She reveled in Claire’s fingers pulling at her neck, shoulders, and back, drawing angry, red lines across the skin.

“Sam,” Claire breathed, “touch me.” Shaw didn’t need to be told twice.

She dipped her fingers below Claire’s waistband, slipping past soft, curly hair and into hot arousal. Between her thigh and Claire’s roving hips, it was a tight maneuver, but she pressed her forehead between Claire’s jaw and shoulder, managing. 

Claire’s legs wrapped around her waist when she drew a finger along her sex. When she finally pushed into Claire, her mouth opened into a soundless gasp.

Pushing at her shoulder until she looked up, Claire forced Shaw to see her. Shaw pushed into her, feeling Claire tighten in response, and Claire caught her gaze and kissed her, just as Shaw curled her fingers. Air escaped Claire’s lips and shuddered through Shaw’s own, Claire’s chest gasping beneath her.

Shaw picked up her pace, pushing her own hips to gain a rhythm. Her own arousal was growing, dampening the inside of her thighs and making the skin slick. Her fingers slid in and out of Claire easily. She pressed the base of her palm onto Claire’s clit and Claire came, unraveling beneath her, arching off the bed.

Recovering rather quickly, Claire said, “Your turn,” before Shaw could pull her fingers out of Claire. Claire flipped them over, twisting her own hand into Shaw’s sweatpants and between her legs. She pushed two fingers into her just as Shaw pulled her fingers out, her neck going taut. 

A soft pressure on Shaw’s chest, Claire worked against her and Shaw let her, twisting her neck to bury her face into the sheets. Her teeth ground together as she stifled a groan. 

Claire rode against Shaw’s thigh as she moved, driving them both closer and closer to the edge with each movement. Shaw bit into her lip, drawing blood, and she absently hoped Claire didn’t taste it when she kissed her moments after. 

Shaw came first. Softly, with Claire’s breath hot on her jaw, and Claire followed seconds after, as she pressed a kiss to Shaw’s neck. The sound she made sent another spark through Shaw, but she ached for reprieve. 

But Claire cuddled into her.

Thing was, Shaw didn’t do cuddling. She stiffened under the touch, as Claire nuzzled her neck, but the contrast of Claire’s warmth and the cool air of the apartment on her sticky skin felt nice. 

After a long while, Claire said, “What does this mean?”

Fuck. Shaw had no idea how to answer that question. She’d been admiring the stains on the ceiling. “I don’t know.”

Claire traced a finger along her forearm. “No, this. Your tattoo. What is it for?”

“Oh,” Shaw breathed. “I was in the Marines.” She craned her neck to look at it, the mark she’d seen every day of her life.

Shaw tried to read Claire’s response, but nothing changed. Her fingertip ghosted along the lines of the crest inked into Shaw’s skin, the one she’d killed for, and her breathing remained the same. Finally, she said, “What was it like?”

That wasn’t one of the usual questions. “Hard,” she said at last, after thinking about it. “I’m five-three. Hundred thirty pounds. Most of the time, I got the shit beat out of me during training. Until I started beating the shit out of them.”

It was easy to talk about training. 

Claire nodded, tracing circles on Shaw’s skin now. She moved from her forearm to her stomach, circling her navel, her breasts, her collarbones. Goose bumps rose like the dead all over her torso. 

“I have all of these memories,” Claire said. “As if I’m somewhere, but it’s a dream, but I don’t remember being asleep. Before I knew I was… I just dismissed it as growing older and forgetting things. My entire childhood is a haze because it didn’t happen.”

Absently, Shaw’s hand moved across Claire’s back. “Harold told me that your memories are his memories, but adapted for the gender difference.”

“So, you’ve talked about me,” Claire said, smirking at her.

Shaw rolled her eyes. “Only because you disappeared.”

Claire lay her palm flat above Shaw’s naval. “You were worried about me.”

“My mom always said it’s wrong to go to bed angry,” Shaw said, but she didn’t disagree. “You left angry. It’s the same thing.”

“I think we’ve made up,” Claire offered. She pressed her lips to Shaw’s shoulder, tongue snaking out to run along the bone. 

Claire fell asleep in Shaw’s arms, snoozing against Shaw’s shoulder with an arm wrapped around her. Shaw kept staring at the ceiling, refusing to think about what she knew she needed to think about.

She had to get Claire away from the Dollhouse, maybe even Los Angeles.

  
  
  
  



	15. 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> On the way to Greer’s office, Shaw sent a quick text to the unmarked number in her phone, a number that went straight to Reese’s burner phone, updating him on recent events. Claire. The mysterious higher up. Just in case she died.

Shaw woke up before Claire did.

Untangling herself from the other woman, she found a blanket, wrapping it around Claire’s shoulders before exiting the room. She slipped into clothes she had hanging around, just a different pair of sweatpants and a shirt, and started making breakfast, leaning on the counter as she watched the eggs bubble.

She heard Claire come up behind her, and when hands wrapped around her middle, fingers skirting across the exposed skin of her hips, she continued stirring the scramble. A hand pressed just above her navel, sparking a flint inside of her.

Sinking into the embrace, like she knew she was supposed to, she let Claire kiss the back of her neck. “This looks good,” Claire murmured.

“Made it for you,” Shaw said. “It’s not done yet. The eggs are still wet.” She pushed the eggs around again, emphasizing her point. Claire was lucky she had any food in her apartment to begin with.

Claire evacuated the space behind her and went to stand beside her. Shaw looked her over. One of Shaw’s tees hung loose over her shoulders, short on her torso, and she wasn’t wearing pants. A hazard in the kitchen.

It was all a bit took domestic for Shaw. She focused on the eggs instead. They glittered in the morning sun as she pushed them around. She blinked. She couldn’t get the Dollhouse out of her mind. Not when Claire was standing right next to her, not when she didn’t know how to ask Claire about Whiskey, not when -

Her eggs were steaming. She put them on two plates, offering one to Claire.

They sit at the counter and Shaw shoveled a forkful of egg into her mouth.

She was content with the silence. That was, until Claire decided to break it.

“I need to go back to the Dollhouse.”

“What?” Shaw almost spit out her eggs.

Claire’s fork scraped loudly against the plate as she refused to meet Shaw’s gaze. “I need to get my things so I can get my own place. Away from there. It’s one step forward.”

Reminding herself that Claire didn’t know about everything else, Shaw simmered down a bit. She nodded. “You could stay here until you found a place,” she said. “So you wouldn’t have to go back.”

“Thanks,” Claire said.

“And I won’t tell anyone you’re here,” Shaw said. She thought she might’ve said it too quickly, but Claire looked up, gratitude written in her wide eyes, her fallen shoulders.

“I really appreciate that.” Her voice was quiet. “It’s sort of nice, being invisible. I can almost still feel the tracker under my skin, but I got that out the first hour I left.”

“Out?” Shaw didn’t remember seeing any cuts or blemishes the night before.

Claire reached behind her head, revealing a cut behind her ear where on anyone else, there would normally be hair. It was healing already, just a small cut, but Shaw knew it would just be another reminded of the Dollhouse for someone like Claire. Along with the marks traversing her face.

“I still have to go to work, though,” Shaw muttered. She put her plate in the sink, holding an arm out for Claire’s.

She wasn’t looking in Claire’s direction, so she wasn’t expecting it when Claire gave her a hand instead. She pulled Shaw in, pressing her lips to the back of Shaw’s hand. She folded her body against Shaw’s back, pressing her breasts against Shaw’s shoulderblades, wrapping her arms around Shaw’s neck.

Her breath was hot on Shaw’s exposed skin. “I can feel how much you want me,” Claire whispered, and Shaw wondered how Claire could be the small woman she saw just moments ago but also be _this_.

“Can you?” Shaw breathed. She closed her eyes, leaning against the counter.

She was going to be late, but fuck it. She twisted in Claire’s arms, hands sliding to Claire’s ass. She pressed her lips against Claire’s breathing her in.

In the end, she was late to work. She stumbled out the front door at the same time she was supposed to walking into the Dollhouse, but when Claire pulled her into the apartment for one last kiss, Shaw wondered how much of it was worth it.

 

.

 

When she got to the Dollhouse, she wasn’t entirely in a terrible mood. Despite her twisted mind and confused feelings, Shaw was relieved that Claire was safe and just a phone call away. So relieved, she went straight to Harold’s office and broke her promise to Claire.

“She came to my apartment,” she said, watching her volume because Caleb was in the other room tinkering with some of the machinery.

“Who?” Harold stared at his computer, unaware, and Shaw sighed.

“Claire,” she said, and he turned toward her, raising both eyebrows in that way he had. He looked fully like a deer in the headlights when his eyes widened, and she’d swear he was standing in the middle of the road right then, oncoming traffic be damned.

Harold adjusted his glasses. “She’s all right, I hope?”

“Yeah, yeah.” Shaw waved him off. “We’re on good terms now, I guess.”

“Oh, good,” he said, and he leaned forward, looking her in the eye. “ _Oh,_ ” he said, getting it. “Oh, dear.”

“Don’t look at me like that,” she muttered. “I’m not going to talk about it with you. With anyone.”

“You and Dr. Saunders are both consenting adults, Ms. Shaw, and whatever -”

“I swear to God, if you say ‘sexual partner’ I’m leaving,” she told him, and her eyes were daggers.

Harold held his hands up in surrender. “I thought you should know,” he began, attempting to change the subject, “there was activity near Greer’s office. It seems someone from higher up is going to be here for a few days.”

“Who is it?” Shaw looked out the window, but there was nothing unusual.

“I haven’t heard a name,” Harold said, “but if I do, I’ll tell you.”

Shaw was hit once again with the intense feeling of kinship. Harold and her were actual, real-life friends. An image of Cole flashed through her mind, and she blinked. She hadn’t thought about him for a while. She trusted Harold, she discovered, and although she didn’t want to think about it, she knew she couldn’t leave him here.

“Claire told me she needs to come back,” she said. Because they’re friends. “Maybe tomorrow. Whenever she’s comfortable.”

“That sounds reasonable.”

“What sounds reasonable?” Zachary asked, strolling into Harold’s office. His grin was unusually wide, as he eyed Shaw up in down. He stopped a good distance away from them both.

Harold recovered quickly. “Ms. Shaw was just explaining to me her plan for tomorrow’s engagement,” he lied. “She has great ideas pertaining to Active/Client relations.”

“Oh?” Zachary looked at her, obviously surprised.

Shaw was surprised, too. She forced a tight-lipped smile. “I was just thinking that it would improve the client experience if they were able to get involved with the imprinting process, pick and choose what they want, to avoid error.”

Zachary chewed it over. “We’ve had increased client satisfaction in the last few years,” he tried. “In the last few months, too. What makes you think involving the client in the process would change that?”

“It was just an idea,” she said, but she held his gaze. “Why are you here?”

Zachary’s good mood didn’t dissipate. “I was looking for you, actually. You’re needed in Greer’s office. There’s someone we’d like you to meet or, rather, someone who would very much like to meet you.”

He turned on his heel and left, leaving Shaw to slump against Harold’s desk. “That sounds ominous,” she sighed. “If they kill me, make sure you tell the police Claire’s in my apartment. I don’t think she’ll venture out on her own.”

“Will do,” Harold quipped. “Although, I do believe in your ability to shoot your way out, if not in your communication skills.”

“Thanks,” she remarked.

On the way to Greer’s office, she sent a quick text to the unmarked number in her phone, a number that went straight to Reese’s burner phone, updating him on recent events. Claire. The mysterious higher up.

Just in case she died.

 

.

 

Shaw had never expected this moment to come. She stood in Greer’s office and was face to face with the woman she had spent years wondering about, and she was nothing like Shaw imagined.

For one thing, Shaw had imagined a man. Behind the black cloud of mystery that plagued the hundreds of agents in the Intelligence Surveillance Activity, most of them had their horror stories about Control. Shaw had imagined maybe scars, something that disfigured a face that was too ugly, too terrifying to show in person. Something that forced him to keep his identity a secret.

What Shaw didn’t expect was standing in front of her, sipping Greer’s expensive whiskey, laughing heartily.

“Agent Shaw,” she said. “We haven’t met, but you know me as Control.”

Shaw bristled. It all came flashing back to her; Cole, slipping away, blood dripping off her fingers and between his lips. She hid it well, her anger buried under a veil of faked pleasantries.

“Ma’am,” she acknowledged, except Control wasn’t her boss anymore.

(Or was she?)

Greer was. He watched from the side, regarding the two of them. “Mrs. Penn is here to see how things are running,” he explained, and Shaw filed the name  - no doubt an alias - away for later.

“And they are going smoothly,” Control noticed, “thanks to the two of you.”

Shaw shook her head. “I’m just a handler.”

Control laughed, chilling Shaw to the bone. “I think both John and I can agree that you were never ‘just’ anything, Shaw.”

Shaw didn’t know what to make of her. She was taller, but most people were. She owned the office, despite the fact that Greer was in charge of the facility. She owned the conversation, too, as she checked her watch often. For someone who wanted to seek Shaw out, she didn’t spend much time with her.

“It seems that you’ve got everything under control, John. unfortunately, I can’t stay for long. I’ll be in touch.” She stood, pulling her blazer taut. She added, “With both of you.”

She left. Shaw began to get up as well, but Greer held a hand up, stilling her. “I thought you should be aware,” he started, speaking at her back, “that Dr. Saunders has officially been declared missing. Zachary has been tasked with retrieving her.”

She looked back at him. “And if she comes back? What will happen to her?”

“Why,” he preened, “she’ll be welcomed with open arms, of course. There’s a bout of influenza circulating through the Dollhouse and I shouldn’t want to have to outsource when it comes to medical care.”

Holding his gaze, Shaw judged his internal motivations. Finally, she nodded. As soon as she was out in the hallway, she called Claire.

“Hello?”

“Where are you right now?”

“Your place,” Claire said. “Sam… Are you okay?”

Shaw leaned against the interior of the elevator, the vibrating wall humming against the shoulder. “I don’t know,” she said. “I think we should run.”

“Run? What do you mean?”

“Away from the Dollhouse.” It made her sick even just mentioning it, but she’d been thinking it ever since Claire showed up on her doorstep. Someone she always knew Claire couldn’t come back. “It’s not safe.”

There was silence on the other end. Finally, Claire said, “I’m flattered.” She held her tongue for a few more, excruciatingly long seconds. “Let’s do it. When?”

The elevator doors opened. Shaw faced the gallery in front of her. Charlie, from the other side of the room, caught her eye and waved. “As soon as possible,” she said, punching the close-door button.

“I need a few things. I left something locked up in my office,” Claire said. “I’ll need to come back tonight and get them. We can leave right after.”

Shaw wanted to tell her about taking her to the safehouse, but she decided to leave that part out, for now.

“We’ll come tonight,” Shaw agreed. “When just the night guards are here.”

“I… I’ll meet you in the parking garage,” Claire said. “Bye, Sam.”

Shaw hung up, finally stepping out of the solitude of the elevator. She went to her locked in the break room, emptying the meager contents in her bag. The cool metal of her gun made her pause, but finally, she put it in the holster on her hip, feeling whole.

Claire’s office was no longer locked, but she was the only one who knew that. She slipped inside, stashing her bag into Claire’s desk. She scribbled a few lines onto a piece of paper, calling it a resignation letter.

She wrote something about her mom being sick in New York, and her gut twisted.

After she stashed the letter, she checked her phone.

**#** : _Sounds good. Keep me upd8d._

She typed out a message to Reese.

**Me** : _i’m bringing her to the safehouse tonight. will be there by midnight. will tell you everything later._

Now, she only had to wait.

 

.

 

Shaw ended up switching with one of the night guards, claiming she needed the hours. She helped them put the Actives to bed.

Standing next to the pods, she told most of the Actives just to take a long nap. (“I like to sleep,” Tango said, sounding pretty serious. All Shaw could do in response is nod, adding more pressure as she pushed him down into the pod.)

The guards switch shifts and don’t pay Shaw any attention. She settled back into the cot where it all started, letting her mind wander to that night. She felt the ghost of Claire’s breath against her neck…

“Sam,” Claire whispered, drawing her awake. Shit, she forgot about the parking garage. Shaw blinked awake to find Claire standing in the doorway, a halo of light around her head.

“Hey,” Shaw said, her voice hoarse. She stretched her arms above her head.

“Are we really doing this?” Claire asked, slipping into the room. She sat next to Shaw, the cot dipping under her weight, and leaned against the wall.

Their hands were close. Shaw looked at them, Claire noticed, and before Shaw could stop her, she weaved their fingers together. “Yeah,” Shaw said. “We’ll have to be quick.”

Together, they go into the well-lit hallway, walking past the snoozing guards. The gallery was empty, dim, and creepy. Claire didn’t let go of Shaw’s hand the entire time, and Shaw let her hold it, leading her to her own office. “I stashed my own stuff in here,” she told Claire as they reached the door.

Claire went to the cupboard once they were inside. “This is all I need.” She held up her bag, weighed down slightly by whatever was inside, probably just her computer.

Shaw looked at her, buzzing with apprehension. The longer they stayed, the more likely they would be caught. “Are you sure you don’t want to…”

“To what?”

“I don’t know,” Shaw admitted. “Look at your original imprint?” Shaw avoided saying _real_ because Claire’s old sentiment still echoed in her ears. _I know who I am._

Claire sighed. “I don’t think so. I think I’ll be better off not knowing.”

Shaw could respect that. “Let’s go.” She grabbed her own bag and they went toward the garage.

They passed the elevator to Greer’s office and Claire stopped, staring at the button that only went up. Shaw looked at her, a few steps ahead. “Claire?”

Claire turned eyes full of wonder toward her. “I might not want to know who I really am, but I want to know what my past selves had done. His files are the only way.”

“We’ve got to get out of here,” Shaw argued.

“It’ll only take a few minutes,” Claire told her, and she already pressed the button to call the elevator. Shaw leaned against with her arms crossed, not feeling much of anything, even when Claire stepped onto the car.

Shaw held her hand to prevent the doors from closing. “He could still be up there.”

“I have to know what I’ve done. I hate it, feeling helpless like this. Have you ever felt like that?” Claire’s eyes were pleading, staring at Shaw like she’d never seen her before.

“I haven’t,” Shaw admitted. She’d always been in control. “I’m coming with you.”

The interior of the elevator teemed with energy as they rode to the top floor. Claire couldn’t stand still and Shaw became a statue, the two of them in sharp contrast as each floor passed them by.

Shaw pulled her gun out when they reached the top floor, stepping out ahead of Claire as soon as the doors opened. She cleared the hallway and silently stepped toward the door. She motioned for Claire to open it and nudged her way inside.

Greer stood by the windows, reading. Shaw held him at gunpoint. There was no going back by now. “Ms. Shaw.”

“The computer,” Shaw said, ignoring him. She listened for Claire behind her, but instead heard the click of a gun. "That's where the files are."

She turned her head.

Claire had the gun pointed at her, her hands shaking. “Put the gun down, Shaw. I don’t want to hurt you.”

“What?”

“I don’t need the files.” Claire looked right through her, ignoring Greer on the edge of the room. He moved carefully anyway, putting down whatever he’d been reading.

Shaw let out a breath. She put her gun down next to her, kicking it over to Claire and put her hands up. Claire shook her head. “You can put your hands down. I didn’t want you to stop me.”

“Stop you from what?” Shaw asked. She was annoyed, mostly, and she wiped her palms on her pants.

“Doing this,” Claire said, and she shot Greer.

Just one pull of the trigger.

Her aim was off because her hand was shaking, but Greer stumbled into his desk, pressing a hand into his stomach, and he looked down at his abdomen like he didn’t really think she would do it.

Shaw stared at Greer, then at Claire. Claire’s arm was shaking, her finger threatening to pull the trigger again, but Shaw was quick to cross over to her. She folded a hand over the gun, lowering Claire’s arm, and Claire finally met her gaze, lip shaking horribly. “Sam,” she breathed.

“We’re running now,” Shaw said. She took the gun from Claire’s fingers and tucked it into her waistband.

They left Greer bleeding out on the floor.

  
  
  



	16. 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Hey,” John said, just as Carter said, “C’mon, idiots, we don’t have time for a heartfelt reunion.”

Shaw’s chest burned, the air ripping through it like jet fuel. Her boots came down on on the linoleum hard, Claire just a few steps behind her. 

Instead of the sleeping guards at their posts, the guards were nowhere to be found. Shaw reached for Claire’s hand, pulling her past a sharp turn, twisting through the labyrinth. They were almost to the garage; Shaw could just barely taste the freedom. Just a few more steps.

Martine stepped around the corner too fast. Shaw didn’t see the gun.

When Shaw got pistol-whipped across the face, she fell to the floor like a sack of bricks. Vaguely, she heard Claire cry out for her, but she felt as though she was underwater.

Sharp pain blistered across her cheek as Martine’s boot connects with it and Shaw disappears.

 

.

 

Harold sat in his office, tinkering with an imprint for Zulu. It was the last one for the night, and he rubbed at his eyes, taking a moment’s reprieve. He had told Caleb to go home hours ago, but now he wished he’d told the boy to stick around. He could’ve used the help. As he stared at the lines of code, he didn’t trust his tired vision.

From the balcony, he spotted movement in the gallery. He recognized Shaw and… Claire Saunders. He watched them slip into Claire’s office and emerge with bags on their shoulders. He returned to his code.

He let them go. 

Almost twenty minutes later, just he was finishing up, the lockdown froze his computer. There was just a small message: Dollhouse in lockdown. 

Martine ran into his office, breathless, and said, “Greer’s been shot,” before she ran out again.

Harold stared after her. “Shot?” he repeated to an empty room.

He followed after her, ready to help. He almost ran into her on his way out, as she barreled back in. “Is it ready?” she demanded.

“What -”

“The Disruptor,” she growled. “I need it right now. Regardless of your upgrades, I need an original if nothing at all.”

Harold didn’t disobey her, not when she was like this. He went into the other room, pulling open a drawer to find the modified version of the device. The gun-like machine fit into his hand easily, like it was meant to be there, but when Martine took it from him, he felt a chill wash over him.

“How does it work?” she asked. She was practically bouncing.

“Point and shoot,” he said. “It will remotely wipe anyone with Active architecture in their brain.” Martine made to leave, and he added, “May I ask what this is for?”

Martine looked back at him as the device charged in her hand. “Someone shot Greer,” she said, “and I’m going to do something about it.”

The only logical thing Harold thought to do when Martine stormed into the hallway was to follow her. He kept his distance, but Martine made good time, bringing out her own, real gun when they’re to the basement. He caught up just in time to watch her hit Shaw across the face and aim the Disruptor directly at Claire.

She didn’t hesitate to pull the trigger. Claire dropped to the ground in a heap of limbs and well, Harold supposed, she wasn’t Claire anymore.

Harold pressed his back against the wall and took deep breaths. Martine barked an order to a guard, and as much as he tried, Harold didn’t make it out of the way in time before Martine is around the corner. She spotted him right away.

“Finch,” she said, “I was just coming to get you.”

Shaw and Whiskey are gone, pulled into random rooms and unconscious. Harold straightened and nodded. “Of course,” he said.

“I need you to imprint Whiskey to my exact specifications,” Martine said, and she pointed her gun at him. “Or I could just get Caleb.”

Harold gulped. “I’ll do it.”

 

.

 

Bright lights. Like a hospital. 

Zipties around her wrists like she was an animal. Fuzz, static… Around the edges of her vision. She smacked her lips, her dry, chapped lips. She needed water. Opening her eyes, she blinked at the sterile, off-white walls that greeted her. Her vision swam, and finally refocused. She was upright, in a chair, tied to it. 

Her feet, too, were tied to the legs of it. Pain edged around her consciousness like a wallflower. She was drugged.

The inside of her cheek was bleeding. She tasted the iron of it, couldn’t help but pull the flesh deeper into her mouth. The taste brought her back into focus, but she couldn’t see anything beyond the well lit room around her.

_ Claire. _ The other woman was nowhere to be found. 

She waited for her eyes to adjust to the light. There wasn’t anything that could help her, nothing but white cupboards along one wall that could hold something useful. 

The room was unrecognizable, which put her off the most. She thought she knew the Dollhouse well, but she realized there were plenty of unmarked doors she hadn’t gone through. 

For what feels like hours, Shaw pulled at the zipties holding her hands together. Repeatedly, she broke the skin trying to get free, feeling the sting of the plastic dig into her. She strained she arms, pulling against her thumb, trying to break it. Just as she was about to, the doorknob clicked.

As the door opened, Shaw vaulted herself forward. The power wasn’t much, but she barreled into Martine, managing to break the chair into pieces. 

Martine was on her, sending a spiraling punch right to Shaw’s face. Splitting her cheek, the impact sent Shaw’s head bouncing against the ground. Her hands were still ziptied behind her back, so she stopped fighting, going limp. Martine settled back with legs on either side of Shaw’s hips, wiping her mouth. 

Pausing to catch her breath, she said, “I got to hand it to you, Shaw. You never stop fighting.”

“What are you doing?” Shaw asked, because the last thing she knew, Martine was just another handler. She couldn’t ask about Claire. Not yet. 

“We know you killed Greer,” Martine said, not answering her question. “As soon as the gun went off, the Dollhouse went into lockdon. We’re wired for that kind of thing.”

“So, he’s dead,” Shaw mumbled through blood and a sweeling cheek. She wasn’t too inclined to say that Claire actually killed him. “Who’s ‘we’?”

“I’m in charge now, Shaw,” Martine murmured. She shifted her weight, pushing the breath out of Shaw’s chest. She leaned forward, brushing a thumb across Shaw’s cheek. “Kind of a pleasant turn of events, really.”

“You mean,” Shaw said, “you’re in charge until Zachary gets back.”

Martine’s expression darkened. She sat back, then slid off Shaw altogether. She stood up, and then, almost as an afterthough, delivered a sharp kick to Shaw’s side. Shaw curled into herself, coughing harshly. She spit blood onto the concrete.

Towering over her, Martine grinned. “That’s how this is going to work,” she said. “I’m going to ask questions, and you’re going to answer them.”

“Is it?” Shaw wondered. She stared at Martine’s feet.

Martine didn’t answer her. She stalked over to the door, and it took Shaw a long moment to figure out that she was talking to someone in a low murmur. Her own ears were ringing; she could barely hear her own breathing. Finally, Martine walked back to her.

“Sorry to cut this short,” she said, “but we’ll have to continue our play date soon.”

Shaw relaxed as Martine slammed the door shut, letting out a breath. She attempted to sit up. Now that she wasn’t tied to the chair, she took the time to stumble around the room, investigating. There was the cupboard in the corner, the remnants of the chair (if she could get her hands free, she could use one of the legs on whoever came in next), and a folded blanket. No bed.

For the next two days (or what Shaw assumed to be two days, she couldn’t tell from the inside of her room), no one else came to visit her. Her stomach growled like a train on time, her cheek healed, and she managed to get her hands in front of her and arm herself with a chair leg.

She broke her thumb with a quick jerk of a chair leg against the wall. She stifled her grunt with gritted teeth and hunger.

After drifting between levels of consciousness, Shaw was awakened by gunfire, lots of it, and she stood up, despite her muscles screaming. The broken wood from the chair scrapes against her palm, but she stares at the door, unwavering: her last chance for salvation.

The last person she expected to walk through that door was John Reese.

Carter is tiny compared to him, covering his back.

“Hey,” he said, just as Carter said, “C’mon, idiots, we don’t have time for a heartfelt reunion.”

“Tell me those were your bullets hitting someone else out there,” Shaw said, making a quick exit, still armed with a chair leg. 

Reese moved out of the way, offering her a way out. “Carter’s a good shot.”

Reese wasn’t her white knight. But as the two of them walked down the hallway and avoided the bodies left in John and Carter’s wake, Shaw realized she’d never been more grateful to be saved. John’s face was covered in soot and dirt and grime and whatever else; Shaw didn’t care. Carter was flawless, as per usual. Shaw was pretty sure she was hallucinating.

“Harold’s just down the hall,” Reese said, and a twist in Shaw’s stomach made her want to hurl. 

“You came for me first?” she joked. “I would’ve thought him more of a friend than me.”

John looked back at her and smiled wryly. “I came for you first in case another wave of guards showed up. My trigger finger’s a bit raw.”

A look from Carter told Shaw that wasn’t true. 

Harold’s room was much the same as Shaw’s, but judging from John’s reaction as soon as he opened the door, Harold was faring far worse than she was. He rushed in and helped Harold off the floor. Harold’s glasses were missing, his suit was a joke now that it was stained with blood and dirt. He barely made it a few steps without stumbling.

“Do you know where Claire is?” Shaw said to Carter, eyeing John and Harold.

“Oh dear,” Harold mumbled as another wave of nausea overtook him.

Carter shrugged. “She’s around here somewhere. We’ll go out on the other side. See what we can see.”

They made their way down the hallway, Shaw in the lead. She knew this part of the Dollhouse now, even if the place where she was kept was unrecognizable. She held the gun John gave her tightly, relishing the feeling of finally being able to arm herself. All was quiet as they made their trek, save for Harold’s continuous moans of pain. He managed better than Shaw would’ve thought, but he had John.

When they rounded a corner and came to another room, Shaw saw Claire through a window in the door. It was an exam room, and Claire sat there, swinging her legs on a table. Two people in lab coats milled around her, checking vitals and taking blood.

Shaw stood in the shadows of the hallway. “I’m going to get her,” she said, stepping forward to shove her way through the door.

“Wait,” Harold said, his voice weak. Shaw turned back to him. “That’s not Claire,” he breathed through the pain. “They erased her.”

Shaw took the information in stride. The words don’t quite hit her. “Then who is it?”

Harold didn’t answer. Shaw turned back and looked through the window. This time, when the woman met her gaze, she grinned wildly. He was right. This wasn’t Claire. The woman winked at her, and suddenly, the pieces fall into place.

_ We’ve had trouble with this imprint in the past. She’s very unpredictable. _

“He’s right,” Shaw said. “Let’s go.” She pointed down the hallway, in the direction of the garage.

She risked one last glance into the room before she followed after them. When she did, she found the woman looking at her, leaning back on the table and preening like a cat. She smiled and lifted a hand, curling her fingers to wave at Shaw.

Shaw turned and followed after John, Harold, and Carter, leaving Root to fend for herself. 

 

.

 

The safehouse was the only place to go. 

As soon as they get there, Shaw ordered food. She barked at the underpaid asshole on the other end without meaning to when he said the food would be there in forty minutes, but she collapsed onto the couch afterward, not missing the glance of sympathy Carter sent her.

Reese gave her water before bringing out the first aid for Harold.

They all sat in the living room, looking worse for wear. Harold looked worse in the light of the room. Without his glasses. 

“I have a lot of questions,” Shaw said, taking a second to drink water, “but I’m going to start with: what the hell just happened?”

Harold rubbed his temples. “I believe I can answer that.”

And he told them. What he saw with Martine. He said she wanted a trained killer, and everything she described fit Root. 

“You gave her the worst imprint ever,” Shaw complained.

“Root will prove to be trouble,” Harod agreed. “But they don’t know that. Ms. Groves is Whiskey’s most violent imprint. She’s resourceful, skilled, and most important of all -”

“She’s fucking crazy,” Shaw said.

“She doesn’t care about hurting people,” Harold finished.

John sat silently to the side, arms crossed. Finally, he said, “When did they hurt you? You did everything they asked.”

“After,” Harold said. “After I gave them Root, they put me in that room to rot.”

The words sank into all of them. Shaw had thought they’d done the same thing to Claire, but they had different plans. She realized she wouldn’t meet Claire again, not after what Harold described with the Disruptor. 

“Martine said she was in charge,” Shaw said. And she told them about Control, about very briefly about her old job and the secrecy around the name. “Greer said her name. Mrs. Penn. Probably an alias.”

“Pamela Penn,” Carter said, sitting up. “I’ve heard that name in relation to government intelligence. I haven’t met her, but, I’ve definitely heard the name.”

“Shouldn’t be too hard to track down now,” Reese agreed.

“What is this all about?” Harold asked. “What are you trying to do?”

“We need to destroy that place,” Shaw said. Her leg started to bounce as she thought, running through a myriad of terrible of idea. Suddenly, it came to her. “We need to blow it up. Before this gets too big.”

“I like that idea,” Carter admitted, pointing at Shaw. “I’m with her.”

John shook his head, right as Harold said, “No. We can’t just barge in with explosives.”

“He’s right,” John said. “Going in and getting you guys out was hard enough. Now, they’ll be expecting us. We need to get the innocent people out.” He eyed Shaw meaningfully.

“The Actives.” Shaw leaned into the couch.

In the hallway there was some loud shouting, and Shaw sprang from her spot. “That’ll be my food.” She went after the noise, finding a delivery guy arguing with a sleepy-looking man.

“This isn’t my food, idiot,” he said. “I don’t have the money.”

“This is address,” the boy argued, pushing the receipt toward the man.

“That’s mine, sorry,” Shaw said, coming out of nowhere. She held up a twenty dollar bill. “You can keep the change.”

The delivery guy gratefully disappeared and Shaw said not a word to the other man; she only had eyes for her food.

When she came back into the room, she ate slow and methodical, making sure she listened to her stomach. She knew she’d throw it all up if she ate too fast. She became full well before most of the food was gone and she put the rest of it in the fridge.

Admittedly, she hadn’t been listening while she was eating.

“Rossum is corrupt,” John was saying. “They have been from the start. Right now, they’re ripe for the taking. Greer’s dead.”

“Martine stepped up,” Shaw pointed out, wiping her mouth. It was all coming back to her: every time Martine passed by and smiled, offering a lewd comment about one of the Actives. She’d never want Martine in charge, but she was. “Zachary and Martine going at it might give us the advantage.”

Harold wet a handcloth under the sink, beginning to wipe at his cuts. “What should we do?”

“We’ll take them down,” Shaw said. “Before they can get their hands on something that just hijacks anyone without Active technology.”

“They’ll send Root after us,” John sighed. His shoulders fell, as though the fatigue finally caught up with him.

The four of them, haggard and war-torn. Somehow, Shaw ended up being the mastermind in this conspiracy, but she fell into the role like clockwork. She took orders in the ISA well, but now that she was the one giving them, she understood why she never questioned the other side.

“I’ve got it,” she said. “At least, something for now.” Everyone looked to her. She really was their last hope. “We need someone to pose as a client, to see who’s running things on the inside. We need eyes.”

They chewed on it. John straightened, turning to Carter, and Shaw grinned. “Yes.”

Carter’s brow furrowed. “No.”

“She’s perfect,” John said.

“Agreed,” Shaw said.

Carter crossed her arms. “After all of this is over, I’m shooting you both.”

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



	17. 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "You're against the rules, Sameen, but I've always been a fan of breaking them."

Sitting and waiting for Carter to emerge from the Dollhouse, Shaw buzzed with excitement. She listened to the conversation on the other end and so far, the initial meeting was going well. Carter was treated with respect and courtesy, but Shaw waited for the icing on the cake.

“Ms. Carter,” a voice greeted. Shaw recognized Martine’s voice.

It still grated her that they couldn’t forge an alias in time. Carter was just herself, an NYPD detective looking to have some fun. It worked; Carter didn’t have any connection to Shaw or Reese on record, but it still made Shaw uneasy.

“And you are?” Carter said, hard boot heels rubbing at the floor. 

“Martine Rousseau, Interim Director.”

A door creaked open. “Ah, a pleasure, Detective. I’ve read so much about your work in New York.”

Shaw recognized  _ that  _ voice. “It’s Control,” Shaw told John over the private line, separate from Carter.

“You’re sure?”

“Sure as shit, Reese. I used to kill people for that voice. It’s her.” Shaw unbuckled her seatbelt and pushed open the door, pausing only when Reese’s voice crackled over the line.

“Wait,” he said. “Listen. She’s fine. Carter’s been undercover before.”

Shaw wanted to say that it was different, then, but she’d be lying. He was right. Carter was a trained operative, just like them. She could take care of herself. 

Settling back into the car, Shaw focused on listening. It was all going to plan - their plan - and Carter was doing well under the pressure. She recited the lines with an expert level of ease and Shaw was impressed. She knew Carter would be good, but not this good. She told John as much.

“I know,” he replied. “But we’ll have to see how well she does tomorrow with Charlie.”

Shaw leaned back. There was time until the engagement tomorrow. Carter exchanged pleasantries once again before she walked out, squinting at the sun. She put sunglasses on, glanced toward Shaw’s car, and walked in the opposite direction.

“All good,” Carter said once she was a few blocks away.

Shaw drove away with her hands tight on the steering wheel. It was about fucking time.

 

.

 

“Shaw, checking in,” Shaw said.

“Reese, checking in.”

“Finch, checking in,” Harold said. “Detective?”

“Carter, checking in.” Her mouth barely moved as she spoke, sipping her drink through a straw.

Shaw watched her from across the street. Carter sat at an outdoor cafe with crossed legs, glancing at her watch, waiting for her thousand dollar person to arrive. It was a long wait; Carter arrived early in order for Shaw to stake out the place and for John to find a high position.

A van pulled up. Charlie, or rather, Javier, stepped out of it. Shaw didn’t recognize the handler sitting in the front seat.

“Hey,” Javier said. “Jocelyn, right?”

“Yeah,” Carter said. 

He sat down across from her, and Shaw zoned out. “Reese,” she said, “do you have eyes on the van?”

“Down the street,” he replied, and she was off.

She tucked her hair into a baseball cap, skirting her eyes across the ground. Listening vaguely to Carter to Javier’s conversation, she rolled her eyes when Carter attempted to take the high road instead of fall into an argument. As she turned a corner, Shaw spotted the van parked down an alley.

“Got it,” she told everyone. She checked the gun in her pocket for ammunition, just in case, before ducking into the alley and out of sight from the street.

She approached the van from the back, ducking behind dumpsters when she saw movement in the front seat. She peeked around the corner. Nothing. Slipping around the van, Shaw came up on the driver’s side window with her gun up. No one.

It was too silent in the back of the alley. The sound of the heart rate monitor in the back of the van was loud, the only sound she could hear. So much for monitoring. Shaw went to the back, reaching for the door handle.

When she opened the door, she revealed Root sitting on the floor inside, smiling at her. “Hey sweetie,” she said, like Shaw didn’t have a gun pointed between her eyes. “Did you miss me?”

“Root,” Shaw spat.

“Root?” Harold said over the communication link. 

“What are you doing here?” Shaw asked, ignoring him. Her gun hand was still despite the rage twisting inside of her. She couldn’t look at Root without seeing Whiskey or Claire. Or everything she’d lost.

Root cocked her head to one side. “I’m here to kill you, Sameen.”

Shaw had just enough time to roll out of the way before Root shot at her, brandishing a gun like it was an extension of her hand. Shaw told herself again and again that Root wasn’t real, but that time she killed a man was very, very real.

“Fuck,” Shaw said. She pressed her back against a dumpster, hiding from the torrent of bullets bouncing off the pavement, the metal, and the brick of the building. “Root,” she called. “You don’t want to do this.”

“There’s a lot of things you don’t know about me,” Root called back. “Like how much money it takes to make me forget.”

Forget? Shaw hugged the dumpster tighter as another burst of gunfire pulled at her. “That money isn’t real,” Shaw argued. “They’re never going to let you go free, you know that.”

“Are you attempting to reason with a psychopath?” Harold questioned desperately. “Do you understand how redundant that is?”

“She’s not a psychopath,” Shaw muttered. She cocked her own gun before leaning out. She shot in Root’s general direction, scattering a flux of bullet holes across the back doors of the van. Root wasn’t visible, but Shaw knew she was here somewhere.

She held her gun steady, ready to shoot wherever Root popped her head up. 

“Up here,” Root said, and Shaw had no time to point her gun up at the fire escape that climbed the building like ivy.

Racing after Root, Shaw jumped toward the ladder and caught the bottom rung with enough momentum to pull herself up. Her muscles complained, she really needed to work out, but she scrambled up anyway, finally making it to the top. The stairs shook under her weight as she bolted up the fire escape.

Forget shooting Root. She wanted to strangle the bitch. 

When Shaw surfaced on the roof, bullets whizzed past her, narrowly missing.

Tuck and roll. Shaw somersaulted across the ground, finding the nearest cover. “You know I’m right, Root,” she yelled. Shaw checked her gun for bullets. She had three left.

“Right about what, Sameen?”

“They’re never letting you go,” Shaw said. “You’re always going to be a killer to them. You’re replaceable.”

There wasn’t a response, but when Shaw poked her head around the corner, she caught sight of Root. She shot all three shots, managing to graze Root’s shoulder as the woman disappeared again. 

Shaw ran, ready to fight tooth and nail. She had at least thirty pounds of muscle on Root, but Root stood with her hands up anyway, fists in front of her face. There was no way she could win, but she tried. Shaw inwardly applauded her attempt, even as Root landed a clumsy punch to Shaw’s stomach. Shaw grappled with her, slipping a hand from her shoulder to the grazed flesh and Root hissed.

Knuckles to face, Root hit right where Shaw’s bruise was attempting to heal. When Shaw looked up again, Root pointed a gun at her. 

“I don’t want to hurt you, Sameen,” Root whispered. Her chest heaved with exertion, her lip bled. She was unfazed by the burning wound on her arm.

Shaw held her hands up.

“But you aren’t giving me a choice,” Root continued.

Ditching the conversation, Shaw turned and ran toward the edge of the roof. She vaulted off of it, feeling a single moment of weightlessness in her stomach. Landing in an open dumpster, in a heap of lumpy garbage, Shaw couldn’t breathe for what felt like a very long minute.

The seconds ticked by. Shaw twisted and stared at the sky. Long hair poked out over the edge. Root looked down at her before making her way to the fire escape.

Shaw couldn’t move. Her bones felt bruised down to the marrow, and her breath still hadn’t found its way back into her chest. She knew she’d feel this in the morning, bruises and all. She couldn’t do a single thing about the sound of Root’s footsteps getting closer and closer. So much for an escape plan. She closed her eyes and let the pain sink in.

“Now, that was dramatic,” Root said. She climbed over the edge of the dumpster to sit on the wall. “When I said I didn’t want to hurt you,” she explained, “I meant that I wanted to help.”

“Help?” Shaw asked, her voice too weak for her tastes. Even bruised and battered, there was always time for sarcasm. 

“You,” Root said. “It’s always been you.”

Shaw blacked out after that, the sky spiraling away from her. She never felt Root’s hands close around her forearms and struggle with her weight.

 

.

 

Shaw woke up back at the safehouse. The room was cool, a fan in the corner, and she realized she hadn’t given Reese enough credit when he picked the place out. It was nice. 

Her head hurt like a son of a bitch. She groaned, blinking at the light and the flood in her head that rushed in when she tried to sit up. Her shoulder protested as she moved to press an arm over her eyes.

“Hey,” John said, and she flinched. “Sorry,” he amended, lowering his voice. He stood at the edge of the room, just out of her field of vision. “We thought we’d lost you.”

“Whatever,” Shaw muttered. She needed water. “Who cares about a fucking jump.”

“From four stories,” he prompted. “Impressive.”

Shaw snorted, but regretted it as soon as it happened. Her ribs were bruised, poking into her uncomfortably. She pressed a hand against her stomach, ignoring the pain at the touch. “I feel like I’m in a million pieces.”

“Almost,” John agreed. “But not quite. You’re going to have to teach me whatever that was.”

“Maybe never,” she said. Suddenly, she remembered what she’d jumped off a fucking roof for. She sat up, too quickly, and searing back flared through her. “Where is she?”

“Root? Tied up and knocked up,” he said. “She went quietly, after you blacked out. Didn’t put up a fight.”

Shaw struggled to get out of bed, noticing a change of clothes. “And Carter?” she asked through gritted teeth. Her breaths came in stilted gasps as she gripped the edge of the bed, fingers tangled in the sheets.

“You really shouldn’t get up,” John told her, but he didn’t try to stop her. Shaw sent him a glare, but said nothing.

When she stumbled out into the hallway, a wave of nausea settled in her stomach. She braced against the wall, but when she heard Root’s voice in the other room, it spurred her onward.

“Carter continued with the engagement,” John said behind her. “Returned Charlie behind the end of the night. You’ve been out for a day and a half.”

In the middle of the living room sat Root tied to a chair, much like Shaw had been in the Dollhouse. Her face lit up with she noticed Shaw. “Sameen,” she greeted. A frown stretched across her face as she looked Shaw up and down. “You should be in bed.”

“Yeah, right.” Shaw turned to Harold, seated at the counter across from Carter. “Why is she awake?”

“She woke up about twenty minutes ago,” Harold said mournfully. 

Carter added, “She won’t shut up.”

Shaw turned to the woman in question, obviously still in a drug-induced stupor. It made sense that they drugged her, but something about it made Shaw uneasy. Root could barely hold her head up, but gave Shaw a lazy smile, head lolling to the side. Shaw scowled, hiding her own hesitation. 

“What did you mean,” Shaw said, “earlier. When you said you wanted to help.”

Root licked her lips, and Shaw definitely didn’t stare at them. Not at all. It took Root several moments to get her lips the at the right level of moisture, but she stopped, then, flexed her arms to test the restraints, and sighed.

“I know what Rossum wants,” Root said. “I can help you in the fight against them.”

“There isn’t a fight,” Shaw lied. “It’s just them trying to kill us. Or whatever Martine wanted with me and Harold.”

“To send you to the Attic.” Root let her head fall back and stared at the ceiling. 

Harold turned to Root. Shaw narrowed her eyes. Root, on the other hand, began to laugh. “See? I do know some stuff.”

“What about the attic,” Shaw prompted, crossing her arms. The movement hurt, but she was too angry to care.

Root’s laugh filled the room, sounding more like a mad scientist than a girl on a drugs. Looking toward Harold, Root said, “He knows. Probably better than I do. He could tell you all of my skills, right down to being able to use two guns with acute accuracy.”

“That sounds lame,” Shaw said, looking to Harold.

He shrugged. “I created her.”

“He made me,” Root corrected. “I am everything I am because of him.” She met Shaw’s gaze pointedly. “Everything.”

Shaw felt Root’s gaze on her skin like electricity. She meant the first time they meant, Shaw knew, but how did she remember? Shaw blamed Harold for this clusterfuck, even if she didn’t want to, because Root was right. Harold created her, and now Rossum was using their most skilled assassin against them.

Shaw asked, “What does she mean?”

“Who can fathom the mind of a crazy person?” Harold muttered.

Root’s entire face lit up. “Why,” she said, “the one who made her crazy, of course.”

Even if she was tied to a chair, even if she was the enemy or the smallest one in the room, Root looked so alive. Shaw wanted to see if she was flesh and blood. To crack her open and see if her heart beat. It made sense that Root would blame Harold for her conception and not how she had evolved since creation. 

“What about the Attic?” Shaw ignored the direction the conversation seemed to have taken, aiming her question at Root.

Root shrugged. “I have no idea.” She tilted her head toward Harold. “I wasn’t programmed to know about it.”

“The Attic was conceived by me,” Harold started hesitantly. “Greer wanted somewhere, almost like a prison, to put anyone in disfavor.”

“I’d say we qualify,” Carter remarked.

“It’s like wanting to remember something on the tip of your tongue, but instead, whatever you want to remember is your entire life. Too far from your grasp.” Harold’s voice was toneless.

“Sounds fun,” Root said. She was more sober now, blinking to forego drowsiness.

“Sounds dangerous,” Shaw countered. “Why would Martine want us in the Attic?”

“Isn’t is obvious?” Root yawned. “To get rid of the competition. Right now, you’re plotting something, right?”

None of them answered her. Shaw shared an exasperated look with Carter. “I’m right, aren’t I?” Root asked.

“Did anyone search her?” Shaw asked, suddenly conscious of the sensitive topic. “What if she’s bugged?”

“No one did.” John edged around the room. 

Shaw walked right up to Root, who grinned. She searched her, patting her down from her abdomen and down each leg. Shaw pulled her shirt up and looked for a wire, something that could be recording their conversation, but she found nothing. In Root’s left boot, she found a knife. She tossed it to the side.

While Shaw kneeled in front of her, Root leaned forward as best she could. “Might want to check my back.”

Glaring, Shaw reached around Root’s back, letting her fingers skim across the revealed skin when she pulled Root’s shirt up. Root’s breath was hot on her neck. Root said, low and way too close to Shaw’s ear, “This is cozy.”

It was quiet enough that the others didn’t hear. “Shut up,” Shaw mumbled.

Returning to her position at the edge of the room, Shaw scowled at Root from afar. They were no closer to a conclusion than they were before Shaw woke up. 

At the other edge of the room, stood Reese. Shaw realized, then, that Root is just a woman who tried to kill her a day ago to him. He had no reason to trust Root, but Shaw was just beginning to. 

“We could use her,” Shaw suggested. “Control sent her after us for a reason. If we trust her, we could be foiling their plan.”

“Or playing directly into their hands,” Harold argued. “This could be exactly what they want. For her to get caught, for us to try and use her against them. When we least expect it, she could stab us in the back.”

Root let out a long whistle. “Interesting that you think so highly of me, Harry.”

“We’ll keep her tied up,” Shaw said. “But when we come up with a plan, she’s coming with us.”

Root glowed, living in the spotlight.

“Right now,” Shaw added, “I’m going to bed.”

“You’ve got watch at three,” John called after her, but Shaw shrugged his words off. She focused on one thing and one thing only: her bed.

Later, John shook her awake, a gentle hand jostling her aching shoulder. The ache in her ribs and back had intensified, and she groaned in the darkness. “What,” she said, irritation laced in her tone. 

“Your turn for watch.” She could swear she heard John chuckled as he left. 

As Shaw climbed out of bed, she took stock of how she felt. She hadn’t felt this bruised since before the Dollhouse; ISA missions could easily whip her in the ass. The clock on the bedside table read 2:57AM. 

She slipped into the other room to find that Root’s accommodations had changed. She was in a cushioned chair now instead the harder, uncomfortable one from before. Shaw went into the kitchen and searched for the whiskey, pouring it into a glass.

The burn of it was like coming home, familiar and steady. Especially considering that Shaw didn’t have a home. 

Propping herself on top of the counter, Shaw crossed her legs. In the other room, Root snored lightly. Shaw rolled her eyes, wracked with jealousy. Whatever. She had another hour before she could wake Harold up, so she switched to the couch, setting into the cushions. She didn’t realize she had fallen asleep until she jolted awake later, just in time to catch Root snapping her eyes shut.

“Were you watching me sleep?” Shaw grunted, glancing down at the glass she’d had in her hand before she fell asleep. Still firmly in her curled fingers, the whiskey looked no worse for wear.

Root peeked at her through a curtain of hair. “No.”

“That’s creepy.” Against the better part of her judgement, Shaw’s walls came down. 

Root was just another person. She wasn’t their captive. Shaw sort of trusted her.

“What else don’t I know about you?” Root’s voice was quiet, intuitive, but it was the words that made Shaw instantly alert.

“What did you say?”

“I asked,” Root began.

“I know what you said,” Shaw interrupted, remembering the last conversation they’d had when they were alone. “What are you playing at?”

Root blinked at her, expression dreamy and tired. “You said there was a lot I didn’t know about you,” she whispered. “I want to know.”

“How do you remember that?” Shaw’s voice was the ghost of her normal register.

“I always remember,” Root reminded her. “Don’t act like you don’t.”

Shaw stiffened in the heady embrace of the couch. She resisted the urge to tighten her hands into fists, using the glass of whiskey as a barrier. “I don’t remember anything,” Shaw snapped.

“Want to know what I remember?” Root’s voice grew melodic, bouncing through the air. “I remember you kissing me. You tasted like you were forbidden.  You’re against the rules, Sameen, but I’ve always been a fan of breaking them. ”

Shaking her head, Shaw avoided looking at the expression on Root’s face. She slammed back the rest of the whiskey, but it did nothing to eliminate the tension in her shoulders. 

“I remember you and me in a restroom,” Root continued, voice growing soft, “and me on my knees and your dress pushed up over your hips.”

“Stop,” Shaw said finally. She met Root’s mischievous gaze. “Just. Shut up.”

“Does it make you uncomfortable?” If there was anyone in the room that looked uncomfortable, it was Root; unable to move at all, her restraints had worn deep, red creases into her forearms. No doubt there was bruising by her ankles, too.

“No,” Shaw argued. She didn’t want the others to hear, didn’t want John to know about that night, not when he’d been so close to catching them.

She got up and went to the kitchen, scouring the cupboards for the right medication. She swallowed the pain pills with a sip of whiskey, despite the years of medical school that whisper in her ear not to. For now, she put the bottle away. She checked the time. Almost four. 

“Sameen,” Root tried again, as Shaw slid toward the hallway to get Harold.

“Stop calling me that.”

“It’s your name,” Root said. “But I guess I’m not in a place to argue, am I?”

“What did you want?” Shaw snapped. She was too close to this. She wished it was someone else  they’d sent, some other variation bordering on assassin, but instead she got stuck with Root for the second time. When she didn’t even want anything to do with her the first time.

No, that was a lie. It  _ had  _ been Shaw who initiated the kiss, no matter how deep in denial she was. At the time, it had felt like the right thing to do. At the time, things were easier, and she was on Root’s side rather than against her. Things were different.

“You look good in those,” Root said.

Shaw looked down and realized she was wearing only boxer shorts and a shirt; she hadn’t expected Root to be awake during her watch.

“Thanks,” Shaw muttered, distracted.

She woke Harold up and went back to her room. She didn’t know how long she lied awake in the room, but eventually she succumbed to unconsciousness.

“Sameen,” a voice whispered, eventually pulling her back to reality. Light filtered in through the windows as the early hours of the day arrived.

Root sat on the edge of her bed. Her hand rested on top of the covers and below them, lay Shaw’s arm. 

Leaning down over her, Root kissed Shaw, blocking out the rest of the world with her curtain of hair. She climbed over Shaw easily, straddling her in the small bed. Her hips rolled, and Shaw groaned without meaning to.

Root’s hand wrapped around her throat, and Shaw didn’t realize the pressure increased until she gasped for breath against Root’s lips, her heart hammering in her ears. Root grinned devilishly, leaning her weight into her hands, and the edges of Shaw’s vision started to go black.

“Trust me, Sameen,” Root said, but her voice was far away; Shaw barely heard it. When she finally gathered the strength to push Root off, her hand hit nothing but air.

Root wasn’t there. Shaw woke in a tangle of sweat and sheets with Root’s voice echoing in her ears.

Shaw collapsed back into the bed. “Fuck.”

  
  
  
  
  



	18. 18

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shaw shook her head, stepping away from Root. (She wanted to hit her. Hard.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm in college now! Yikes.

The rest of the group was getting ready when Shaw woke for her second watch. They all looked haggard: John hadn’t shaved for days, Harold’s bruises had begun to darken, and Carter’s eyes were plagued by shadows. Only Root looked chipper in the morning sunlight - which did nothing to help Shaw forget her dream - as she slept in the middle of the room. The hours must’ve taken a toll on her, but Shaw was grateful for the silence. 

The silence didn’t last long. “What are we going to do?” John asked.

“I think I’ve got a plan,” Shaw answered, knowing he wouldn’t like it. She didn’t like it much herself.

John looked toward the middle of the room. “Does it involve her?”

Shaw nodded, sighing.

An hour later, Shaw shook Root awake with a rough hand on her shoulder. Root winced under Shaw’s grip, but Shaw didn’t miss the smile that curled at the corner of her lips.

“How do we know that we can trust you?” Shaw demanded as Root’s head rolled forward.

Root looked toward the clock on the wall. “I’m supposed to check in with Martine in ten minutes.”

“What?”

“I’m on a mission, Shaw,” Root said, like Shaw was stupid. She said Shaw’s name like Shaw was an annoying bug that Root couldn’t quite get out of her code. No more  _ Sameen _ . “She expects me to report to her. She wants results.” Root looked at Harold. “I can’t imagine me disappearing from the engagement has her unconcerned.”

John stepped from the shadows. “Were you planning on telling us?”

“I figured you would guess,” Root drawled, tilting her head. “Weren’t the two of you operatives once?” She adopted an accent then, mocking them. “Woulda thunk y’all were smarter than this.”

Shaw shook her head, stepping away from Root. (She wanted to hit her. Hard.)

“Seven minutes,” Root said while Shaw was thinking.

“Whatever,” Shaw groaned, grabbing Harold’s computer from the table. She pushed the laptop into Root’s lap. “You do this, and you  _ don’t  _ tell her about us, we won’t kill you. Got it?”

“I’m a little tied up,” Root pointed out, eyeing the laptop. “Not that I mind.”

Shaw rolled her eyes. John reached down and cut Root’s duct tape restraints. Root reclaimed her wrists, taking her damn time to rub at the joint. Her ankles were still bound the the chair.

“So you do trust me,” Root hummed.

“It’s a test,” Shaw countered.

“And if I tell Martine exactly where you are?” Root’s fingers caressed the side of the laptop like a lover.

“Like I said, we’ll kill you,” Shaw lied. “Win, win for everyone.”

Root opened the laptop, gazing curiously at the screen. “I think you’re lying,” Root said, “but anything I can do to help.”

Fingers flying across the keys, Shaw didn’t bother to try and watch what Root was doing. She tried earlier, with Harold, and lost herself in the code. Root smiled crookedly, pausing. “What Doll did you have after me?”

“What?” Shaw glanced at John.

“Three minutes,” Root reminded her.

“Charlie,” she answered, a bit apprehensive.

Root finished, pressing a single keystroke to end the message. “Sent,” she said, looking up at them. “I told her that all I’d been able to figure out was that you were focused on freeing Charlie, but I hadn’t been able to gleam locations, times, or otherwise. She’ll respond in a moment.”

They waited for Root to turn back to the computer and when she did, she ran her eyes over the message and grinned.

“What is it?” Shaw tried to read it, but it was in some sort of code.

“The mission had changed,” Root said, smirking. She looked up at Shaw, bit her lip, and then, looked back down at the computer. “She wants me to kill you. All of you.”

Root typed something back, closed the computer, and offered it to Shaw. Instead of taking it, Shaw said, “What did you say?”

“I told her I’d do it.”

John took the computer, eyeing the two of the warily. Root held up her wrists. “Now, are you going to tie me up again?”

The question threw both of them off guard. Eventually, they left Root’s hands untied, and Shaw ignored Root’s gaze for the rest of the hour as the rest of the team woke up. When they were all gathered in the living room, Root conveniently started talking again.

“I hacked the Dollhouse earlier.”

“You gave her access to a computer?” Harold balked, rushing over to his laptop to inspect it for damage.

Innocently, Root asked, “Don’t you want to know what I found?” She folded her hands in her lap. “I think it’s interesting.”

“Spill,” Shaw prompted.

“Emails,” Root said. “Between Control and someone the Internet identified as the governor of California.” She looked at Harold, who was still nose-deep in a computer screen. “I wasn’t programmed with a knowledge of politics, apparently.”

“What did they say,” Shaw growled, “specifically.”

“She’s planning on developing a remote system to wipe and imprint anyone.” Root waited for her words to sink in. “But the emails were old.”

Shaw studied her before turning to John. “They remotely wiped Claire when we were trying to leave the Dollhouse.” They turned to Harold.

“The Disruptor,” John said, and he noticed Root leaning forward, listening. “I think we should talk in the other room.”

They turned to go, aiming to take Harold with them, when Root said, “Can’t I come?”

Simultaneously, they said, “No.”

Carter, Shaw, John, and Harold crowded in Harold’s bedroom shutting the door behind them. The room was neat, but Shaw noticed the small things, like the medicine bottles on the nightstand, or scattered tie clips in front of the mirror. Small signs of chaos.

Shaw cut right to the chase. “Is there anyone as proficient with the Active technology as you are?”

“A few,” Harold answered, meeting her eyes. “My device only works on people with Active architecture already in their head,” he started. “How they could get their hands on something that could…” He looked up, realizing something. “Caleb could do it, if anyone could. And someone else. Someone out of the D.C. Dollhouse.”

“There are  _ more _ ?”

“There are quite a few, Ms. Shaw,” Harold said. “Ever since there became a need for humanity, there was a need for perfection. I never expected it to go this far.”

“Well it has,” Shaw snapped. “And you’re going to help us fix it.”

“There is nothing I’d rather do.” Harold reached up to straighten his tie, revealing a bruised wrist. 

John followed Shaw out into the hallway. “I don’t have any good ideas,” she said, leaning against the wall.

“At this point,” he said, “I say we just go in and let everyone out.”

“And arm the place with explosives,” Carter added, joining them.

“Everyone?” Shaw asked.

“The Actives.” John’s voice was steady. “They deserve more than the life they’ve got, especially for someone like Root, or whoever she was.”

Shaw glanced toward the living room, remembering suddenly, that Root had an original. “Sounds like the closests to a plan we’re going to get. I’m in.”

 

.

 

Walking into the Dollhouse for what was the final time had a sort of resonance that prickled at Shaw’s skin. Her gun was heavy in her arms (she’d opted for something larger than a handgun this time), but she had orders not to kill. Maim, maybe. 

She was at the forefront of a league of semi-assassins, tasked with saving Southern California. Then, the world. 

John was in the back, glued to Harold because he’d refused to bring a weapon of any kind. With Shaw at the helm, Root maintained a comfortable distance between them, right in the middle near Carter. Root brandished a taser and Shaw hoped it was enough.

Keeping her voice quiet, Root asked, “Can I have a gun?”

Despite her precautions, her words echoed off the walls. Shaw winced. “No,” she said, doing a better job at keeping her voice low.

The power was off, with only the back up generated lights flashing at the ends of the hallways. Root didn’t continue talking, for which Shaw was relieved. The last thing they needed was for Rossum to know they were there before they even got to an elevator. 

The hallways were familiar by that point. Even up here, where light poked through the windows from the streets and casted lines across Root’s face when Shaw looked back. Shaw took a breath and Root nodded at her; something inside of Shaw settled, despite all of the rocky water between them. Shaw tightened her grip on her gun. 

It was the kind of covert op she was used to. In the darkness, dressed in black, and with a gun ready to kill. Except not quite the last part.

Opting for the stairs instead of the elevator, Shaw pointed out, “it’ll increase our chances of surprise,” when John looked at her. All five of them slipped into the stairwell in silence. 

The darkness of the lower levels provided the perfect mask for their mission. The amount of guards at the Dollhouse drastically decreased at night, but she figured that Martine would still be there, somewhere. She hoped so. Her trigger finger bounced with adrenaline, tapping the metal. If she happened to shoot a certain blonde bitch in center mass, rather than the extremities, then she’d make up for it later.

Leading the way, she slid up next to a door and peeked through the window. “Clear.” She pushed the door open cautiously, revealing an empty hallway. She stuck to hand signals after that, pointing toward Harold’s office. She ignored Root when she mouthed,  _ Can I have a gun now? _

They made quick work of the hallways, despite Shaw feeling vulnerable as they walked across the catwalk toward the balcony. They’ve seen no one. 

Sticking to the walls of Harold’s office, away from the huge floor to ceiling window, Shaw paused to look around. Nothing had changed since her last visit, except - 

“They’ve been in here,” Harold murmured, stepping toward the file cabinets. He opened them, revealing the files out of order and misplaced haphazardly. It was messy, but still put together.

“Is anything missing?” Shaw didn’t think she’d ever heard Reese this concerned.

Harold went toward another shelf, one Shaw recognized as the one containing all of the imprints. He ran his fingers over the spines of the disks, scanning the names. “They’re all here.”

“What are we gonna do now?” Carter asked from her spot near the door.

They all looked to Shaw. This was her plan from the beginning. She probably shouldn’t tell them that she wasn’t sure, at this point, where to go. She never was the one to make plans, only one to follow orders. She nodded her head, thinking.

Then, Root said, “Sameen and I will gather the Actives while you two stay and guard Harold.” Root bounced on her toes, taser in hand, and Shaw shrugged.

“Yeah,” she echoed.

The others didn’t complain. Harold started gathering the originals, getting them ready, and he gave them directions on who to grab first. Shaw hoped she remembers what the Actives looked like.

Root willfully lead the way, glancing back at Shaw every two or three steps. As they neared a known guard station, Shaw put a finger to her lips and stepped around Root, ignoring the way Root held her breath when Shaw stepped a little too close. The guard was the first person they’d seen all night, and he didn’t even get the chance to cry out. Shaw hit him across the face with an elbow.

Coming out of nowhere, Root jammed the taser into the side of his neck. The man fell to the floor in a tangle of limbs, the blue crackle of electricity only momentarily breaking the silence.

Shaw nodded, tucking loose hair behind her ear. Root invaded Shaw’s space and whispered, “We make a good team, don’t we?”

Shoving her off, Shaw scoffed, offended. They resumed their journey, making it to the sleeping quarters in one piece. Shaw recognizes the area immediately: it was where Whiskey used to sleep. She sent a glance toward Root, wondering if she remembered the nights spent in the pod in the floor.

As they approach the holes in the ground, the Actives faces covered by fogged glass, Shaw can’t help but remember the night she helped Whiskey get to sleep, so soon after the first time her and Root met.

Root pressed a button on the wall. Every pod’s glass cover opened, revealing the sleep Actives inside. There were six of them; Shaw and Root would have to make at least two more trips to the other rooms.

They gathered the Actives quickly, rousing them from sleep. The last one Shaw grabbed was Charlie, who smiled at her. Despite the bond having been broken weeks ago, Shaw saw it in his eyes; he still felt something deep for her, something without words. Shaw pressed a finger to her lips and he nodded his head, understanding. When they passed the unconscious guard, Shaw gave him another kick to the head for good measure. If he woke up, they were fucked.

After they drop the Actives off at Harold’s office, Shaw moved to the door again. “How long will it take to restore all of them?” She looked at Carter and John, who ushered the mindless Actives to the corner.

“At least thirty minutes for these six,” he answered. Already, John ushered Charlie toward the chair.

Root was close on Shaw’s heels as they left.

The second group came as easily as the first. Root even helped this time, pulling a few forearms, forcing Actives to their feet. They were slow to more, sleep addled and drowsy, but eventually, they come. On the way back, Root leaned close to Shaw again, breathing against her neck. “Can I please have a gun?”

The pressure of the extra handgun at the small of Shaw’s back was too much. She shoved Root away from her, pulling the gun out. Eyes widening, Root looked at it for a long moment. Shaw shook it in front of her nose. “Just take it. I’m not going to stand here all day.”

Silently, Root grabbed the gun, testing the weight in her hands. Shaw hoped she wouldn’t regret it.

The third and final trip proved more difficult. The second guard station was empty as they passed it; instantly, Shaw pulled her gun off her back and cocked it, rifle at the ready. Root mirrored her, arm taut and poised to fire.

Together, they crept down the hallway. It felt a lot like the moment Whiskey was shot, the day Shaw’s life began to slip away. Shaw took the lead this time, remembering how Whiskey stepped around that corner and plummeted to the ground with a bullet in her stomach. With her own brand of invisibility, Shaw became a ghost.

Back against the wall, Shaw closed her eyes. One. Two. Three.

One step, she took a shot. A blonde bun retreated back behind the other end and Shaw felt a flare of satisfaction in her bloodstream.

Root looked at her, alarmed,  and Shaw mouthed,  _ Martine. _

“Give it up,” Martine called. “We’ve taken the rest of the Actives. There’s nothing left for you here.”

“Bullshit,” Shaw muttered. She tucked and rolled, firing off a full round as she did so. The bullets filled the hallways with loud, blistering noise. She kept firing, but there wasn’t anything in return. She looked at Root, still on the other side of the hallway.

But Martine was gone.

They stepped around the corner, guns up, and had each other’s backs. Occasionally, Shaw more felt than saw Root twist behind them, just to check. 

Shaw stiffened as someone else stepped into view at the end of the hallway. There wasn’t any cover for them, just a door a few feet ahead, if they could make it. There wasn’t any way for both of them, though, if he started shooting. 

As soon as she saw him, she wanted to lower her gun. It was instinct. Root, on the other hand, grew taller, and held her gun impossibly higher.

“Cole?” Shaw shook her head. She saw him die, held him in her arms, but he stood in front of her, healthy, and he had a gun at his side. 

He’d never held a gun when he was with her. He’d never needed to. He always stuck to the van, even though he was in peak physical condition. In the late nights, he’d always said he didn’t like that kind of stuff, even though he orchestrated every single movement she made. Cole was the reason she was alive.

“What are you doing here?” Shaw’s gun wavered, just slightly.

“Forget him,” Root said. There wasn’t any way she could know about him, but she looked between the two of them again and again, reading the situation.

Cole tilted his head. “Hey, Sam.” His voice rang robotic and fake.

“What did they do to you?”

“I’m the result of fantastic science,” Cole murmured, and his eyes drifted past them. Root whipped around, but there was nothing there. “It’s more than everything we ever talked about, Sam.”

With a shaky hand, Cole raised the gun. Shaw shook her head and stepped forward. “Put the gun down, Cole.” Her heart was a drumline in her ears.

Cole looked down at his hand like he hadn’t known, like the gun was a foreign object. His gaze darkened, then, and he grinned widely. “They stole me, Sam. They wanted you, too, but it looks like they got you, anyway. You were always better than I was.”

“We need to go,” Root said, bringing Shaw back to the present. She couldn’t tear her eyes away from Cole. “Martine’s just using this as a distraction.”

Suddenly, over the intercom, Martine said, “And the secret agent jumped over the moon.”

Cole went shock still, the only movement in his body a trembling hand as he turned the gun on himself. Nothing mattered to Shaw then, because she lunged forward, dropped her own gun, ignored Root’s hand grabbing her arm. She shoved Root away from her and the breath came out of Root’s chest as she landed against the wall. 

“Not again, goddamnit,” Shaw said, just as she was three steps away, two steps, and then the intercom cut out. Her reaction time was good, she was just - 

Too far away.

The gun went off. She swore she saw a flicker of Cole’s old self flash before his eyes before he pulled the trigger. She couldn’t be sure. All six feet of him fell to the floor; she didn’t catch him. She stood over his body for the second time. 

She turned to Root, who stood where Shaw’d practically thrown her. “Sorry,” she said. It was empty.

Wide eyed, Root shook her head. 

  
  



	19. 19

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She breathed the words in Root's atmosphere, crowded against a wall in the middle of a war.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One more chapter, y'all!

“You knew him,” Root said. They walked down the hallway aimlessly; they had no idea where Martine and the others sent the rest of the Actives. At this point, Shaw was grasping at straws, hoping one of them was right. 

She felt cold, like ice water was twisting through her veins. “He was an agent I used to work with.” She didn’t plan on elaborating, but when they came to another dead end, she paused. “He died a few years ago. I have no idea how they did this.”

“You said your old employer was involved with the Dollhouse,” Root reminded her. “What if they were making some kind of super soldier? If you were imprinted, you wouldn’t have to be trained in combat, just healthy.”

Shaw turned to Root, looking her over. She was right. Root’s original imprint was probably just some normal woman who’d never picked up a gun in her life, yet here she was, an assassin with some of the best instincts Shaw had ever seen. Looking back in the direction they’d come, Shaw thought about Cole. He always stayed in the van.

He didn’t deserve this.

“That wasn’t him,” Root said quietly. “I know what an incomplete imprint looks like. The eyes, they’re different, unfocused. He was just patched up to distract you. Let’s keep going.”

Shaw tightened her grip on her gun. “What,” she growled, “just because you’re one of them means you know everything? If you can be erased, there’s just as much of a chance that he could’ve been restored.”

“They would’ve destroyed his original,” Root said, looking Shaw in the eyes. “After taking everything they needed, they would’ve killed him and left behind a shell.”

Shell. It was the same word Shaw opted for when thinking about the Actives in general, when they just milled around and did nothing. They were just waiting for a Hermit crab. Deep down, she knew Root was right, but rage filled her, sparking at her synapses. Her lips pressed into a tight line.

To her credit, Root didn’t flinch when Shaw lashed out at the nearest wall, her fist cracking into it. Chest heaving, she flattened her palm against the concrete. She leaned against the wall and said, “I’m going to kill Martine.”

Root grinned. “Sounds great. As long as I get to watch.”

They took off down the hallway, determined this time for a destination. Shaw went for Greer’s old office instead of wandering, and Root followed dutifully. They stopped at every door, checking every room, just in case Martine stashed away the Actives. They entered a deep part of the Dollhouse that Shaw was unfamiliar with, so Root took a semi-lead, keeping time with Shaw.

She stopped at an unmarked door. “We should probably tell Harold what we’re doing?”

Scoffing, Shaw shoved her way inside. “Since when do you care about Harold?”

Root smirked. “Since he created me, of course.”

They found a radio inside, which is probably why Root stopped to begin with. Root fumbled with it while Shaw stood guard, and just as Root found a clear line, a guard stepped into the hallway. 

“We’ve got company,” Shaw muttered, just as Root said, “Harry?”

Shaw stepped into the hallway, gun up, and started shooting. 

She didn’t recognize the guard, but she recognized the faraway look in his eyes. He kept coming at her, despite the fact that she was shooting in nonlethal parts of his body. Each bullet she released hit home in his shoulder, his arm, and finally his leg; he buckled to the ground. When she reached him, she kicked the gun away from him. 

He struggled to fight her off, gritting his teeth through the pain, but Shaw pinned him down. 

“What’s your name?” she asked, holding him. 

He said nothing. 

She opted for tying him up and knocking him out instead of killing him. She took his gun back into the room to find Root with her knees against her chest, her face aimed at the ceiling, listening to Harold as he talked on the radio. 

“...are being completely irresponsible right now and I would like to speak to Ms. Shaw.”

Root’s head swiveled to Shaw and she held the radio out to her. 

Before she handed the radio over, Root said, “You look good covered in blood.”

Shaw all but snatched the radio out of her hand. “Finch,” she snapped, “we’re handling things.”

“We need the rest of the Actives,” he reminded her.

“I know that,” she said. “We’re getting them. In the meantime, make sure Reese and Carter keep your ass safe because you’re the only one who knows how to work that goddamn chair. We’re trying to not die right now.”

There was a long silence. Then, “Duly noted.”

She threw the radio back to Root, who smirked. Shaw walked around the room, examining the contents on the shelves. “Is there anything else in here we can use?”

“Not much,” Root admitted. “Except this case of explosives that I found.”

“What?”

“Okay,” Root said, nudging the box with her foot. “I didn’t just find it.” Shaw glared at her, hoping that she would continue, and it worked. “Before they turned me onto to you, they just left me to my own devices for about a day. I did some exploring. Make notes of what was where.” She looked pointedly at the box she’d pulled from underneath a desk.

“These can’t have just been here,” Shaw argued.

“Well, they weren’t.” Root leaned over the box and started pulling a few of the unarmed devices out of it. “I found them in a different part of the facility, put them in a box, and brought them here, in case I needed them at some point.”

Shaking her head, Shaw wasn’t about to admit that she was impressed, but she was. There were some high-grade explosives in the box, and Shaw was one hundred percent sure they would be able to use them in destroying the Dollhouse. 

Root fell back into her chair, smiling. “A  _ thank you  _ would suffice.”

“You’re not getting one.” Shaw started to put the explosives in her bag. It was already heavy, but this would slow them down even more. “Here, take some of them.”

They continued toward Greer’s office, like they planned, and as they stepped onto the elevator, Root started humming. 

The doors closed and Root took a brave step into Shaw’s space. “Sameen,” she breathed, her eyes almost black and drifting down toward Shaw’s lips. “I need something.”

Shaw said nothing, her nostrils flaring. The elevator moved slowly, agonizingly so. Root opened her mouth to say something, then rethought, closing it. Finally, she said, “A kiss for good luck?”

“You’re out of your mind,” Shaw said, shoving Root away from her and to the other side of the small compartment. 

“Maybe.” Root readied her gun as the elevator groaned to a stop. She was still annoyingly happy. And maybe it was the grin on her face, or the way she held her gun, but something made Shaw press the emergency stop and grab Root’s elbow, pulling Root back and into her.

It was satisfying, the surprised noise Root made, muffled against Shaw’s lips. Maybe it was because Root asked to kiss her, maybe because Root was there when Cole died  _ again,  _ or maybe it was because they were both covered in blood and gunsmoke.

Root’s lips were pliant, wanting, and Shaw shoved her into the wall, ignoring the small sound of pain that slipped out of Root’s mouth.

“For good luck,” Shaw said, after she pulled away.  She breathed the words in Root’s atmosphere, crowded against a wall in the middle of a war.  Root’s hands on her elbows tightened, made Shaw feel like exploding. 

“Good enough for me.” Root tasted her own lips, leaning back against the wall as Shaw pushed the button again. 

The doors opened. The last thing Shaw expected was gunfire. So much for good luck. 

Root’s palm came down hard on the door stop, keeping the doors open and providing cover for the two of them. They were good as a team, bullets working together and hitting their targets. One by one, their opponents went down.

Until Shaw ran out of bullets. “Shit,” she said, her gun clicking. Root kept shooting, still infinitely charged.

Shaw caught a glimpse of blonde hair disappearing around a corner and stiffened. “Cover me, Root.”

“What?” Root shook her head. “You’re not going out there. There’s still too many of them.”

“I’m not letting that blonde bitch get away again!”

Before she could argue, Shaw rolled out of the elevator, ran straight into fire. She’d done this before. She practically lived in the line of fire and this time, Root had her back. It was odd to think that she trusted Root, but she did. The weirdo had an insane crush on her, and that was partially the only reason Shaw trusted her enough to not put a bullet in her back.

As she ran, Shaw shoved an elbow against some guy’s nose, unleashing a flood of blood. She slammed his head against the wall, twice, and left him unconscious. She stole his gun and kept running.

She found Martine in a hallway. She shot Martine right away in the leg, forcing her to the floor.

Root must’ve hit her, earlier. Her teeth were lined with crimson. Martine grinned at Shaw when she came to stand over her, still the winner. “You’re not going to find them. This rescue mission is fucked.”

“I’ve never been the type,” Shaw said, “for rescue missions.”

She leveled her gun between Martine’s eyes. Martine started to laugh, but the sound caught in her throat. 

“You’ve got one chance to tell me about Cole. Before I shoot you.”

“You know, if I’d said the trigger differently, he would’ve dropped to his knees and begged you to fu -”

Shaw pulled the trigger and Martine fell back, dead. She was never one to prolong these sort of things. Dead was dead. Shaw knelt down and felt through Martine’s pockets, pulling out her phone. 

She was scrolling through the phone when Root ran up, breathing hard. She looked between Martine and Shaw and back again, getting the idea. “We should set the charges,” she said, breathless. “I can trigger them from a phone once we get far enough away.”

“Yeah,” Shaw said. She took once last look at Martine, then stood up. “Let’s get back to Harold’s office.”

 

.

 

“Reese, Root, and I will put the charges at the weak points,” Shaw explained, pointing at the map. 

The Originals had already gone, escorted out earlier by Harold and Carter. They had all figured that the Dollhouse wouldn’t try and stop them, for fear of ruining their reputation, and they were right. Besides, the Dollhouse still had six Actives in their custody.

“Before we set them off,” Root added, “we’ll trigger a fire alarm. No one besides security and upper management knows that we’re here, so they should just follow protocol.” She looked at Harold. “That should spare the remaining Actives.”

“We should hope so,” Harold said.

“Carter will stay with Harold,” Shaw directed, looking at her. “You have to get him out and keep him safe.”

“I’ve still got my badge,” Carter reminded her. “If anyone tries to stop us, they’re in for a surprise.”

Shaw couldn’t hold back her smile. Just a ghost of one, pricking at the corners of her mouth, but it was there. Root didn’t miss it. Turning back to the map, Shaw pointed at bright red circles. “I’m setting mine here and here, then exiting here. The parking garage.”

“I’ll take Harold to the safehouse.”

“That’s good,” Shaw said. “In three hours, we’ll all meet there. No questions.”

“Aye-aye, Captain,” Root said, mock-saluting Shaw.

Shaw rolled her eyes, then doled out the explosives. They each got two charges, enough to take down a much bigger facility than the Dollhouse. It would probably take down the upper levels as well, but that was what Shaw hoped for. 

Once they get their explosives, they went to separate exits to place them. Shaw looked back, caught a glimpse of Reese as he slipped out the door, then Root, as she looked back, too.

She didn’t say anything. She held Shaw’s gaze for a long moment, then smiled. It wasn’t the haughty smirk she’d been sporting the entire time, but a sincere smile. Real.

Nodding, Shaw went into the darkened Dollhouse.

 

.

 

The hallways were as dead as before. Shaw checked her map again, making her way to the wardrobe department.

One charge here, the other charge in Claire’s old office. It was that easy.

She stuck the explosive in a box filled with discarded clothes, burying it. A small red light blinked at her before she covered it again with fabric. She left the room unscathed, continuing on.

When was the last time she’d slept? She couldn’t remember. She blinked back a sudden wave of fatigue, reminding herself that this was all going to be over soon, once they were all out. They’d already killed Greer and Martine.

_ But not Control.  _

Back when Shaw was pulled from the Marines and offered a job in the ISA, she remembered seeing quotes on the walls, words that had been said by someone named Control. She’d come to learn who Control was, and eventually what Control meant, in terms of the mission. The mission was the most important factor, the rest was irrelevant. 

Cole died because he forgot that, but it wasn’t his fault. She was only beginning to understand that now. 

Shaw reached Claire’s office and slipped inside, surprised to see it stripped of any sign of inhabitance. There was nothing inside, not even the trusty lab table she’d sat on many times. She walked through the bare room and shoved the explosive into a cupboard.

Time to go. She took the nearest staircase, ignoring the screaming of her muscles, tired and hungry. 

The hallway was still, like static, and Shaw walked down it with her gun out, poised.

She didn’t see the shooter before it was too late, before a bullet bit into her shoulder. She slammed against the wall, her lips pressed into one tight line, and returned fire.

The man fell to his knees in moments, but Shaw was still hit. She pulled out her phone and called Reese.

“Where are you?” He sounded like he was out of breath, and the sounds of the city were in the background.

“I’m coming,” she said. “Nice to talk to you, too. Any sign of Root?”

“No,” he said. “I’m with Harold right now. I caught up to them. Carter didn’t find anyone as they left but I shot a few kneecaps on the way out.”

Shaw passed the guy she’d gunned down, deciding her bullets had landed definitely not in the kneecaps. “Me, too. Listen, I’m going to wait for Root. I’ll meet you there. I’m almost out.”

“Shaw -”

“Let her,” Carter said, and Shaw barely heard it. “You’re not going to convince her not to.”

“Fine,” Reese said. “Don’t get killed.”

“Not planning on it.” Shaw hung up, shoving the phone back into her pocket. She was almost out to the street. The streetlights casted long shadows across the ground, leaving parts of the ground in complete darkness. She knew where she’d wait, a couple of blocks down. 

She limped out the front doors of the Rossum corporation and her phone vibrated in her pocket.

“Shaw,” Root said when she picked up.

“Where are you?”

“I can’t activate the charges remotely,” Root said, speaking kind of fast and slurring a bit. Shaw knew she’d probably been shot. “I have to set one on a timer, less than five minutes, and it’ll trigger the others.”

“Where are you?” Shaw asked again. There was no way Root could get out in five minutes if she was on the bottom floor.

“The bottom,” Root replied. “Listen, it’s all right.”

Looking up at the top of the building, Shaw was at a loss. The pain in her shoulder had subsided, and she wanted to hit something.

“I wanted to tell you,” Root continued, but Shaw cut her off.

“No,” she said. “You are not going wax poetic about some dumbass Doll perspective. I’m coming in to get you.”

She started to walk, but Root said, “Please don’t. And since you said I shouldn’t wax poetic, I will. You have a really nice ass.”

“You call that poetry?” Shaw was at the glass doors again, but they were locked. “Goddamnit, Root.”

“Hacked the mainframe. Sorry.”

“Seriously. Let me in.” Shaw stood outside of the door like a toddler, staring up at the camera. She didn’t know how hacking worked in a building running on battery generators, but she hoped Root could see her. 

“Get away from the building, Sameen. You’ve got four minutes and fifty-three seconds.”

The line went dead. Shaw threw her phone onto the concrete and stood with her arms crossed. She pulled at the doors again, then started shoving with her shoulder. She took a running start. It was reckless, she’d be covered in cuts, probably life-threatening cuts, but Root was being  _ dumb _ .

She found a really big rock. One of those decorative ones that aren’t as heavy as they look, but still pretty heavy. She threw it at the floor to ceiling window and it shattered into a million pieces.

She started running.

She hadn’t realized how much time she’d taken up from the end of Root’s phone call, but she was twenty feet away from the elevator when the first charge blew. The shock shuddered through it, pushing her body back and through the air.

She was out cold.

The last thing she thought about was Root, who was an idiot. A dead idiot.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



	20. 20

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shaw knew. She asked anyway. "Where's Root?"

Shaw woke up in the safehouse. 

She needed to stop doing this. Getting hurt, waking up in a semi-unfamiliar place - it was getting to her head at this point. Disoriented, she tried to move, but pain shot through her right arm and shoulder. Her left hand drifted to it, fingering the bandage wrapped tight on her skin. 

The bed sighed when she fell back into it. She stared at the ceiling and tried to blink away the pain; obviously whatever pain medication they’d given to her to knock her out had worn off.

Gritting her teeth, she tried not to move her upper body in getting up. She was unsuccessful and the pain that flared through her make the edges of her vision go black. Turns out a bullet wound hurt a shit ton more after the fact.

Her fingers tangled in the bed sheets as she clenched her fists. Finally, she pushed off the bed. Standing in the middle of the room, she paused so the world would stop spinning.

When she stumbled into the living room, Reese looked up from the corner. “Anyone have anything to drink?” Shaw croaked, leaning against the wall. “Thing hurts like a motherfucker.”

Carter came over to her and handed her a bottle of pills. With a stern glare, she said, “No alcohol with these.”

“Sure,” Shaw said, swallowing down way too many of them. 

She ignored the way they were all looking at her. And the fact that  _ all _ conveniently excluded Root, who was nowhere to be seen. Shaw almost turned around, figuring she would be in the other room passed out, but she didn’t.

She knew. She asked anyway. “Where’s Root?”

Carter still stood a few feet away from her. Shaw knew her well enough to know that she wanted to offer some type of physical comfort - Carter had always been the one to put her hand over Shaw’s, to put her hand on Shaw’s shoulder. This time, Carter stayed wisely away. She looked to Reese, who sat back in his chair. 

“The police are still searching the site.” That was all he said.

“But we haven’t heard that they found anyone matching her description,” Carter said, rushing to fill the silence.

“I never programmed her with a need for self-sacrifice,” Harold muttered.

Shaw stumbled over to the couch, the bottle of pills rattling in her hand. “Yeah, well,” she said, shrugging. “She evolved. Kicked your programming in the ass.” Shaw squinted at the bottle, reading the instructions. No more than one every six hours. No wonder she felt fuzzy; she’d taken three. “Y’know, she could’ve even adjusted her own code. We’ll never know.”

Her voice was bitter, but it shut everyone up. They all looked at her with pity and it made Shaw want to chuck the pill bottle across the room.

“She’s buried under all of that shit,” Shaw said, talking to mainly no one but herself. She looked over at Reese, who looked like he’d aged in a week. “What else can we do?”

“Control wasn’t in the building.” He sounded sad about it. “She’ll probably attempt to contact the D.C. Dollhouse to update them. We should move fast. I have a friend in New York, she can help us infiltrate.”

Shaw stood up. “So we have a plan. We’ll be on the next flight tomorrow, but right now, I’m leaving.”

They all looked like they had things to say: Harold adjusted his glasses and opened his mouth before closing it again, Carter practically reached for her as she walked by, and Reese’s shoulders fell when she passed him.

It was Reese who finally spoke. “I’m sorry, Shaw.”

“She fooled all of us,” Harold agreed. “I had no idea to anticipate that she would do that.”

Shaw shrugged. “It’s all right.”

“She surpassed all of our expectations of her,” Harold said, looking somber. He took off his glasses and began to clean them.

“Not mine,” Shaw said, and she left.

Once in the hallway, Shaw felt better. She took one step before the door opened behind her, revealing Carter, who rushed after her. “Wait, Sam,” she said, closing the door. 

They stood in the hallway, a shitload of history between them, and Carter finally took that step. She pulled Shaw in close, ignoring how Shaw didn’t return the hug for several seconds. Then, Shaw patted her back, a hand landing between her shoulder blades. The contact was unexpected but not entirely unwelcome.

When Carter pulled away, she kept a hand on Shaw’s arm for a moment before it dropped to her side. “Listen,” she started, the words bubbling with difficulty, “My sister can only watch Taylor for so long.”

Shaw looked at her.

“What I’m saying it,” Carter continued. “I’m staying in New York after Reese finds that friend.”

“Oh,” Shaw said. To say she hadn’t thought about the rest of them having lives was an understatement. What skeletons did Reese and Harold have that could keep them from finishing the mission? “Yeah, that’s…”

“I know it’s not what you wanted to hear.” Carter looked away from her, at the peeling walls and the shitty carpet.

“No, no, seriously.” Shaw pulled her gaze back up by a hand on her shoulder. “You have a son. That’s okay. Keep him safe.”

Carter nodded and it was Shaw who started the hug this time. She pulled Carter in, burying her face in Carter’s neck. It reminded her of the extended stays she’d had in New York, when Carter would let her stay the night or they’d find a motel. They were always good at fitting together; they probably always would be.

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” Shaw promised, parting from her.

“Yeah,” Carter said, watching her. “See you.”

 

.

 

She still had the keys to her apartment; she found them in a pocket of her bag. The same bag that had held all of the guns earlier that day.

Slipping inside of the apartment, Shaw realized the feeling she was looking for, the feeling people recognize as  _ home _ , wasn’t going to come. She felt nothing as she looked around the room. Maybe a little excitement when she found beer in the fridge. She cracked the beer open and beelined for the bedroom.

She stepped through the doorway and heard the crackle of electricity too late. The buzz of a taser, right in the space between her jaw and collarbone. Her body went stiff, the beer shattered across the floor, and Shaw collapsed.

Boots. Hair, brushed out of her face.

Black.

 

.

 

Another thing that needed to stop happening? She needed to stop waking up tied to a fucking chair.

Shaw groaned, mostly because her arm was pinned behind her back, wrists tied, and her shoulder was screaming at the placement. She heard footsteps behind her, but she was too far gone to care.

When her kidnapper stepped into view, Shaw rolled her eyes. “What the fuck.”

Root tapped the taser in her hand, smiling. “What can I say? I like to make an impression.”

She stalked forward and sat down on Shaw’s lap, swinging a leg over Shaw’s thighs. With the added leverage, she towered over Shaw. She still tapped that goddamn taser in her hand. “And you, Sameen?” She let the tip of the taser drift across Shaw’s stomach between them. “Do you care about impressions?”

“I care about the mission,” Shaw said, glowering at her. “So get this over with.”

“I think you’ll want to participate in this,” Root countered. She dug the tip of the taser into Shaw’s stomach and leaned in close. “How much do you know about tasers?”

Shaw didn’t bother answering. When Root pressed the trigger, the shock was violent, but not immobilizing. The electricity ignited within Shaw; she ground her teeth together through the pain, twisting her neck to the side. In one second, it was over, but Root was still close.

Her lips ghosted across Shaw’s jaw, near her ear. “I can’t stop thinking about you.”

Of course she would ruin this with sentiment. Shaw must’ve groaned because Root laughed in her ear, her face tipping against Shaw’s. When her teeth bit down on Shaw’s earlobe, a quick brush of tongue following it, Shaw’s breath caught.

Root pressed the trigger again.

Shaw’s neck went taut and she made a sound, something between a moan and a gasp, but it was swallowed up by Root, who kissed her like she was skin in the summertime. Shaw did the best she could, pulling at her restraints now, and pushed into the kiss, tongue twisting into Root’s mouth and tasting her.

An onslaught of memories came with that kiss, even as Root left messy kisses around the corner of SHaw’s mouth and her hand drifted obscenely under her shirt, nails scraping where the taser burned.

Whiskey’s long breathing when Shaw held her to sleep. Claire’s fingertips across Shaw’s tattoos. Now, Root’s teeth sinking into her neck a little too eagerly. 

With rolling hips, Root laughed breathlessly against Shaw’s lips. She put the handle of the taser in her mouth and her hands sunk between them, fumbling for the button of Shaw’s jeans.

“God,” Shaw said, “Just get up and untie me.”

Root stopped all movement and leaned down, moving her gaze to Shaw’s level. “I owe you, Shaw.”

Her eyes went to Shaw’s lips and she leaned in, kissing her too slowly, savoring such a fucked up moment, and Shaw pushed for it to go faster, opening her mouth. Root leaned back and licked her lips. She slid off Shaw’s lap and flipped her arm over one shoulder, head close to Shaw’s as she unzipped her pants.

After hooking her fingers into Shaw’s pockets, she managed to drag her pants down halfway, revealing Shaw’s boyshorts. 

She found her place again on Shaw’s lap, though farther back this time to accommodate. Her hand slipped into Shaw’s underwear, stroking the wetness there, and she practically giggled when Shaw’s head fell back. “So it  _ is _ mutual. I thought I was pining a bit.”

“Just,” Shaw breathed, “shut up.”

Root’s thumb ghosted over Shaw’s lips as she cradled Shaw’s jaw right before she kissed her, grinning against Shaw’s lips as she pushed two fingers into her. 

They shared the same breath as Root’s hand worked between Shaw’s legs, Shaw’s pulse racing faster with every push. Behind her back, her nails dug into her arms and hands. Her shoulder screamed in pain when her hips sought out more of Root and she hissed.

Root forgot about kissing Shaw, losing herself in the movements of her hand, the feeling of being inside her. They weren’t on the same level and Shaw took her chance, pressing her lips to Root’s collarbone then over her breasts, still clothed. The shirt Root wore was thin, thin enough for Shaw to sink teeth around her nipple and for Root to feel it.

Bouncing on Shaw’s lap, Root went faster. Her other hand drifted up SHaw’s shirt, under her bra, and curled around her breast almost violently. She palmed Shaw’s skin roughly, curled her fingers, and finally, when she bit into Shaw’s neck, kissing the skin, Shaw groaned against her.

Her hips slowed, but still quivered with feeling.

“I swear to fuck,” Shaw said, her voice like gravel, “untie me.”

Root extracted her hand from Shaw’s underwear and dug into her own pocket, pulling out a pocket knife. She leaned around Shaw, shoving her chest into Shaw’s face, and cut the zipties.

Needless to say, Root didn’t really expect Shaw’s next choice of action.

A hand snapped up to Root’s throat and in an instant, Shaw was on her feet and she brought them both to the ground. Root landed hard, but she grinned when Shaw straddled her lap, tightening her hands around Root’s neck. 

The look of absolute trust. Whiskey. Claire. 

Root.

Shaw kissed her, hard, and pressed her thumbs against Root’s windpipe. She let go, Root took a breath, and Shaw took off her shirt. Root sat up, hands already at Shaw’s back to help her pull off her sports bra, and when she had it off, she put her a hand on one breast and her mouth on the other. 

A thigh slipped between Root’s legs and she gasped, her back arching off the floor. 

It didn’t take long for Root to spiral sideways, arms above her head and grasping at the ragged carpet as Shaw grinded against her. They were like teenagers, humping each other with clothes on, but when Shaw’s hand drifted down Root’s middle, Root shook her head, grabbing it. 

“Do it again,” she said. Her chest heaved as Shaw dragged her fingers back up.

When they closed around Root’s throat again, her eyes closed and she moaned, long and obscene, and Shaw pressed harder. Her hips found a rhythm of their own, driving Root closer and closer as she tapped Shaw’s arm. Shaw released her, let her take a breath, and traced the marks already blooming on Root’s skin.

“Don’t tell me you’re getting soft,” Root teased as Shaw slowed down. “We’re not even close to being done.”

Shaw leaned into her hand this time, fully aware of Root’s groin grinding against her thigh and pooling wetness. Root choked out a gasp and came hard, shuddering against Shaw’s leg and middle. She wrapped a hand around Shaw’s wrist and kept it there even when Shaw let go of her. Kissing Root’s lips, Shaw pushed her tongue into Root’s mouth, tasted the sweat on Root’s upper lip.

Shaw finally untangled herself and laid on the floor next to Root. She stiffened when Root turned over, but Root kept her distance, just reached over to swirl a finger around Shaw’s nipple.

The ceiling was a lot shittier than Shaw remembered. She didn’t even want to begin to think of what the floor was like.

“Ow,” Shaw said after a while, and Root snorted.

“You’re getting old,” Root commented. 

Shaw flicked Root on the collarbone, narrowing her eyes. Root winced, but put a hand back on Shaw’s chest. Shaw thought about the rest of it, suddenly, and wanted to flee. The mission was too dangerous. Root had - 

“How are you even alive?” Shaw’s voice went to the ceiling, shattering the bubble of bliss they’d created.

“I lied about where I was,” Root said, “so I could surprise you. I got out in time.”

Shaw’s head twisted to the side and then, she sat up, pulling Root with her. She tugged at Root’s shirt, but Root flinched, pulling the fabric back down. “Let me see,” Shaw said. When she finally got Root’s shirt off, she saw the galaxy of bruises across her skin, creating chaos through constellation. 

She ghosted her fingers across the purple and black. “You’re an idiot.”

“A masochist, maybe,” Root countered, “but I’m the smartest person I know.”

Shaw’s hand dropped. “Did you ever look at the original imprint?”

Root lost her smile, looking at Shaw for a long moment. She shook her head, eventually, and shrugged. Shaw wanted to know, just as badly as Root didn’t, who Whiskey belonged to.

“I don’t want to know,” Root said. “It’s easier for me to keep living.”

“And what about her?” Shaw said it before she contemplated her words. Part of her insistence was for Claire and Whiskey. She needed to know for their sake.

Root moved away from her. “So, why me and not her?” She turned on Shaw, laughing. “You think I don’t know that I’m a terrible person? I don’t need you to tell me that.”

“I don’t think you’re a terrible person.” She remembered the moment in the safehouse, when they’d all resigned themselves to Root’s death. Root’s sacrifice.

“Then, what do you think, Shaw?”

Shaw missed the way Root said  _ Sameen _ . It felt different with Root, than with anyone she’d ever been with. A kind of different she can’t put words to. “I don’t know,” Shaw said. It was the truth. She had no idea what all of this meant; Harold knew the science better than she ever could.

“I think,” Root began, turning the words over in her head, “that you’re too scared to admit that this is real.” Shaw said nothing. Root continued, “I’m not just someone you can fuck and then put away in a drawer.”

Part of Shaw wanted to say that Root came onto her, but she wasn’t an idle participant. Root regarded her carefully. “I’m choosing to be the last one standing, and I’m going to have to live with that as much as you will.”

It took approximately three seconds for Shaw to decide that Root was right. She never deserved Claire’s respect or Whiskey’s admiration. They didn’t know better, but her and Root were on the same level. They had the same blood on their hands. 

Shaw ignored the pain in her shoulder as she crawled over to Root, stumbling into her lips. She played directly into Root’s hands, she knew that, but this was the only way she knew how to tell Root how much she meant. To the mission. To all of them. Most of all, to Shaw herself. She could never voice the words out loud.

Root’s just as fucked up as Shaw was, and Shaw spoke in tongues, through teeth scraping across lips and skin. She felt the pulse on Root’s neck with her tongue, imagined the blood under the skin. 

Root was real. Alive, right in Shaw’s hands, and the others were gone. 

They fell into each other once again.

 

.

 

It was morning when Shaw crawled out of bed, blinking at the light flooding the room. The bedroom itself was in shambles; the chair was overturned, clothes were strewn across the floor, and next to Shaw, Root snored lightly. Shaw slipped out of bed, wincing, and went in search of her pill bottle.

She checked her phone, finding it on the counter where she left it. She had a message.

**#:** _It’s Harold. I attached Samantha Groves’ original imprint file. I found it on my computer after you left._  
_open attachment._

Shaw looked back toward the bedroom, then at her phone. With a quick swipe of her thumb, she deleted the message. 

She found her pills in the kitchen and took a few too many. Then, she went back to the bedroom to wake Root and gather her stuff. They had a plane to catch, if they were going to make it on time.

“Hey,” Shaw said, shaking Root’s shoulder.

Root rolled over and grinned at her. “Hey, yourself.”

“We’ve gotta go,” Shaw said, letting her hand linger on Root’s shoulder. “D.C.’s got a Dollhouse and we’re tearing it down.”

Burying her face in her pillow, Root groaned. Shaw took note of her hair, splayed in all directions, and how the light fell across her face. She wanted to remember this moment. Root resurfaced, nodding her head. She sat up and kissed Shaw, a gentle touch of her lips against Shaw’s.

“Let’s go.”

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And we've reached the end, folks!! If you liked this, please be sure to check out some of my other fics as well and comment! I love hearing your feedback, especially the comments that tell me that I've inspired you to watch Dollhouse. Claire Saunders if one of my favorite characters of all time, and I loved melding these two worlds together.
> 
> At last, thank you for reading and I hope you enjoyed it as much as I did ! :)


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